


Shades of Grey

by Traxits



Series: Shades of Grey [1]
Category: Dragon Age Origins
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Torture, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, character abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/pseuds/Traxits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone.  Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him. Written before Awakening's release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zevran: Celebrations

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_The sunlight had been so sweet the day she had left the tower; it had kissed her face, caressed her shoulders. Duncan hadn't hurried her, but he'd smiled as she stood there, holding out her arms to let the sun touch her. The sunlight wasn't as sweet now, on the road into Denerim, but it was warm and she was grateful for it. She was glad that at least something would be with her that had seen her through the whole thing._

_She could have brought Alistair, but he wouldn't have understood. He was needed; she was not. The choice was clear, but it was one that he couldn't make. It was why she hadn't allowed him to be named king. She tossed the dagger in her hand, feeling the weight of it._

_No one knew. No one but Alistair, and he wasn't there to stop her. The moment stretched, and then she began to run, closing the distance. The beast couldn't escape her; it wasn't even trying to. It didn't really believe that she was ready to die, or it didn't understand the gravity of what would happen if she did kill it. There would be no transference of soul, no switching of bodies, no escape._

_The dragonbone blade sank in, glowing a brilliant blue as it pierced the thick hide of the dragon. She felt the light flood through her, felt a fire unlike anything she knew burning its way through her. It was over; it was just beginning._

**[[ ... Chapter 1 ..... ]]**

The celebrations had been the worst. Everyone was cheering and all their group could manage were pained smiles. Shale had the easiest time leaving, and Zevran couldn't help but wonder if that was part of the reason Wynne had so easily fled with her. They had escaped the most painful part of it all: being told over and over again that they were all heroes, when each of them knew the terrible truth. They were not heroes; they had all only been there to support the true hero among them.

Sten had been as impassive as ever, no expression on his face as he watched the cheering masses. Oghren had managed to drink himself into a stupor each night with all of the spirits flowing so freely in Denerim. All thoughts about those had died were flooded with liquor, as though it would solve the problem, ease the ache of so many losses. Of course, all it really did was buy time.

No one knew where Morrigan had disappeared to, but she hadn't been at the final stand with them. Someone claimed to have seen her leaving the night before, sneaking out into the darkness. Whatever she had been biding her time for had clearly come and gone, and she left the group to their own devices. No matter her claims of friendship and sister-hood. She had taken everything of hers, except for a small golden mirror, which had been placed with the Warden and her hound, sealed away with trinkets and tokens from each of them.

Leliana had been swept away by the Chantry, and before the parties had even really started, she was gone. Word trickled back that she was overseeing the development and restoration of Andraste's tomb. Haven was being rebuilt, the last remnants of their cult destroyed. Soon, the Chantry would have a powerful tool at their disposal. Provided that they could control Leliana, of course. The spirit guarding the ashes only trusted her, from what Zevran had understood of the gossip.

That left two of them. The Crow and the Templar, the Antivan and the Fereldan, the assassin and the prince. Former prince. He managed a smile at Anora, who looked distinctly uncomfortable speaking with _him_ instead of with Alistair. However, if she wanted anything to do with the Wardens, she couldn't blatantly show her dislike of their companions, even one as ... unusual as himself. He rather enjoyed making her uncomfortable, purposely misunderstanding some of her phrases as flirts when he knew full well what she actually meant.

Days of feasts, of drink, of cheer. When he realized he couldn't do it any longer, he went to Alistair, and they both simply stared at each other. In a no nonsense tone, he said softly, "I am coming with you." Alistair had not said a word, simply stood and left the room, brushing past him. He had pointedly ignored the heat that even the casual contact had sparked. It had been too long, if something so innocent could cause a reaction in him.

They had headed toward the city, a bag packed each of their things-- mostly clothes-- and been stopped by the guards. Anora had wished to see them before they left. Frustrated beyond belief at the sheer number of hoops they had to go through, they had allowed themselves to be escorted back. Anora had met with them, offered them her support, her pledge of loyalty for their service to her throne. She had been looking at Alistair as she spoke, clearly meaning for this to be the olive branch between them. It had been impolitic, but Zevran had been forced to step in when Alistair made it clear he wasn't speaking with Anora.

He had accepted her help gracefully in the Warden's stead, pushing it further by asking exactly what she intended to commit to their cause. It seemed that no one remembered that Zevran was not, actually, a Warden. He was the one speaking; he was their face for now. The true Warden stood behind him impassively, not arguing, not contradicting him. In the end, they managed to get twenty-five men, and servants to help carry enough supplies for them all. The servants were to be sent back whenever they got to where they were going. Zevran thought this more than fair.

By the time that they were on horseback-- another gift, all a lovely matching grey except for Alistair's, a spirited black stallion-- and leaving Denerim, it was easier to breathe. The winds blew through long blond hair, causing it to strike his face, stinging as he twisted in the saddle to look back at the men behind them. He blew out a deep breath, a frown touching his face as he nudged his horse into catching up with Alistair. He still had not spoken since the memorial.

He didn't need to say anything to the Antivan though. Zevran already knew where he would go: _she_ had told him. Soldier's Peak was operational, able to support the number of men they were bringing back, and Wardens from Orlais were going to be meeting them there now that Loghain was not blocking their access to Ferelden. It was as _she_ had imagined, as she had whispered in the dead of night when she couldn't sleep.

He had never told her how much it broke his heart to lay beside her, to see her so animated and lively when she spoke about the future. Somehow, she made the idea of staying with the Wardens alluring, tempting. Her eyes had sparkled, no matter how trite that sounded. She _lived_ for the future, for _their _future. For her, her assassin, and--

He looked under his lashes at the third member of that dream. Her lover. **Alistair**.

The ride to Soldier's Peak was a long one, and Zevran didn't need to be reminded that it had been a long time since he'd been atop a horse. By the time they got there, he'd be lucky to be able to walk, let alone try to clean Alistair up and get him on his feet again. Why had he allowed her to sway him? Had it been the tears in her eyes? The soft quaver in her voice? He couldn't remember, but it was done. He had _promised_. No one, not even Alistair himself, would make a liar out of him.

"Perhaps, Alistair," he called out, knowing that the two of them were far enough ahead that none of the youths with them could over hear, "we should plan on breaking this ride up? Some of the recruits-"

"Coddle them if you like; I don't care." Alistair's first words since the memorial were low and gruff, the voice speaking them alien to the Antivan's ears. It was painful, and all at once Zevran was shocked at the surge of anger he had toward the other man. Did the former prince think that he was the only one who lost anything? Did he imagine that no one else had sacrificed anything for the woman who had left them both?

His jaw clenched, and he was careful not to let himself reveal the depths of this new anger. Sparks had always flown between the two of them, but there had been no true hatred; only lack of trust. Now, the elf was wondering if perhaps there was more on Alistair's end than he had originally imagined. Was this truly a fool's errand? Had her death destroyed all of the Alistair that they had known?

Hours stretched, and Zevran waited patiently. Just as he was about to give up, he saw it: a flicker on that impassive face. One of the men behind them had been leading the others in some sort of bawdy song, and neither Alistair nor Zevran had the heart to destroy what good cheer they had. It would be taken away soon enough, as every one of them were pledged to the Wardens. The flicker had been a smile at the _rightness_ of it all.

He belonged here, leading these men on their matching grey horses; he belonged in a leadership position. The one he'd been born for had been taken away, given up by him in order to be with a woman who--

No, that was unfair. Neither of them had possessed any idea of the sacrifice necessary to end the Blight. Neither of the Wardens had known that only one would walk away from the fight. Only one could go ... home. Soldiers' Peak. The new base for the Wardens of Ferelden.

The air was getting cold again; winter would be hard. Harder because of the Blight, because of the loss over the land. He wouldn't be able to leave before winter, so he would have to spend it with these men. Dark eyes looked back at the figure in armor, his brother in arms. Fereldans were a strong people. They had to be in order to live here. They would survive, and they would recover, of this he was certain.

He continued to study the one Fereldan in particular that he was to look after. He only cared about this one, about getting Alistair through this grief that seemed to wrack every memory that fluttered over that face.


	2. Alistair: A Kiss

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_It was in Redcliffe that he betrayed her; that he broke her heart. She had stood there, shocked as he made his confession. Not a Warden, not really. He was the _ _ **prince** _ _. A bastard prince, but a prince all the same. She had run from him, not literally, but emotionally. He couldn't be trusted if he wouldn't even tell her something this important before it was absolutely necessary._

_How could she ever trust him now? She didn't look at him as they entered the town, as they set to making things right. She divided up the jobs, sending Wynne and Leliana to the smith, Sten to fetch the dwarven warrior, and Alistair with her hound after the missing child. That left herself and Zevran to deal with the knights. She glanced over at the elf and couldn't stop the smile from spreading over her face._

_He was brushing his hair back from his face. The motion was endearing, because no matter what happened, he managed to come out looking flawless. To see him disheveled at all was a treat, and she was seeing it more and more often since he had joined them after the Tower. She was glad to have him. It gave her someone new to talk to, someone new to laugh with. He had sworn himself to her, and she was doing her best to prove that he hadn't been wrong to trust her._

_She wanted to be worthy of such a promise._

**[[ ... Chapter 2 ..... ]]**

Zevran was beginning to annoy Alistair, and what was so _thoroughly _upsetting was the simple fact that he didn't know how he would have managed without the Antivan. Somehow, he had informally managed to become second in command, his words outranked by Alistair's alone in the eyes of the recruits. They were down to six-- out of the twenty-five Anora had sent with them-- since the two Orlesian Wardens, Clovis and Julien, had come and started the Joinings. It was disappointing, but it bothered him that ... well, that it _didn't_ bother him as much as he thought it should.

The elf was also far more diplomatic than Alistair could be. He managed to seduce just about everyone, noble or not, who came to Soldier's Peak into committing funds to rebuilding the order or committing men to the Warden's cause. He was just as slick and charming as--

No, he didn't let himself finish that thought. The wound should still be too raw, too open. It had been two months, and once again, he hated the simple fact that the wound didn't hurt as much as he thought it _should_. He was numb, had been since he'd heard that she was gone. It was ... not real. She shouldn't be dead; couldn't be. She was immensely strong, able to survive the worst that the world had been able to throw at her, and still laugh and shove right back.

He scowled, throwing his sword across the training room with a horrific clatter. At this time of night, no one else was here; it was why he was even down here. When the keep was awake, he was secreted away in his quarters, unable to face anyone. Only Zevran had the nerve to disturb him up there; only... Zevran.

It was as though thinking too much about him summoned him. He _knew_ those light footsteps, that slight scratch of fingertips over the stone walls. When it was this quiet, everything seemed loud, even things that normally couldn't be heard. As soon as the Antivan was visible, he bristled. He couldn't pinpoint what about Zevran put him on the offensive, but something did; something always had.

"Don't you ever sleep?" He frowned at the Antivan before he moved to fetch the sword. It had cleared the room, managing to embed itself into a target on the other end. He hadn't realized he'd thrown it _that_ hard. He put a foot on the target to keep it still while he wrenched the blade out.

There was a moment while Zevran watched him and leaned in the doorway before he answered, "Sleep? With you clanking about down here? I think not." The Antivan accent was still very noticeable, and it was oddly comforting. Alistair liked knowing that in spite of all the horrific things that had happened, some things didn't change. Things like Zevran tended to stay the same. "Did the sword perhaps insult you in some way?"

Alistair blinked, an owl in the torchlight, then he growled as he studied the weapon in his hand. It was a clumsy piece of work; little more than a training weapon. All of the proper weaponry they had collected through the Blight was put up in the armory. Here in the training room, they kept only wooden and blunted weapons so as to minimize accidents.

"A weapon like this is an insult in itself," he said absently, putting it back on the rack. He didn't mention that he didn't care what sort of weapon it was; he had simply wanted something in his hands to go through the motions. It was all he seemed to have left, the motions. It was all he did anymore.

"Be that as it may, there is no reason to abuse it. It does still serve a purpose, after all." It was _the tone_. He could understand how the recruits viewed Zevran as someone in power if he used that tone frequently on them. No matter that they all _knew _he wasn't a Warden, he was still someone to be respected. He could have been a Warden, were he willing to go through the ceremony. Alistair would never ask him of that. The ceremony had already destroyed too much.

The Fereldan looked back at the other man, studying him in the torchlight. It was the early morning hours, before the sun rose, but long after anyone had come by to replace the torches. They were burning low, and the light was getting faint. There was enough that seemed to caress them both, gave them shadows that the sun didn't. Made them both look as old as they felt. He knew, without asking, that Zevran had been through as much as he had, but he couldn't find it in himself to _do_ anything about it.

The numbness was driving him mad. He couldn't feel anything, could barely think. He just sat and remembered all day. And at night, when he couldn't take the remembering, he came down to the training room and did drills until he couldn't stand up any more. Sometimes, he passed out down here. He always awoke in his quarters though; probably thanks to the man standing there staring at him. He swallowed thickly, knowing that he should say something, _anything_, but... What was there to say at all?

A sigh escaped his companion, and the distance between was closed. "Come on, Alistair; let's get you back to your room. You are about to fall down, and wouldn't _that_ be good for morale?" An arm wrapped around him, and for a moment, there was _something_ between the two of them. Their eyes met, and the two men hesitated. Zevran recovered first however, and he was soon dragging the warrior back up to the quarters he locked himself in during the daylight hours.

He scowled the whole trip, although he didn't struggle to get away. It was only when they reached the door that he reacted at all. Before he could stop himself, he had the elf pinned, trapped between his own body and the wall. There was the slightest intake of breath, and then nothing. But Alistair wasn't standing for it. He was _sick to __**death**_ of nothing, and he was going to have no more of it. His annoyance and irritation with Zevran was something, and it was something better than the numbness.

He knew when Zevran got uncomfortable; he knew it was strange with him leaning in so close, with the aggression and that _something_ sparking between them. Neither of them ever yielded to the other, and neither of them were about to start now. It was something he'd always admired about the Antivan, no matter how loudly he complained about him. He didn't know where he was going with this; he just wanted to see something other than pity on the elven face so close to his own. It was then that Zevran shocked him.

Slender hands lifted and buried themselves into his hair, longer now from lack of attention and then lips pressed against his and _dear __**Maker**_... It had been too long. He gasped just slightly against the kiss, and the elf took advantage of that, plunging into his mouth with heat and wetness. His arms trembled just slightly, and he found himself wrapping them around the Antivan, drawing him closer.

His hand fumbled for the doorknob, and he wasn't entirely certain how he managed to get the door open. But the next thing he knew, they were in his rooms, and the door was shut. They peeled themselves from one another slowly, reluctantly, and for a heartbeat, Alistair couldn't breathe; he was simply staring at the elf in his arms, at those kiss-bruised lips. He had the _taste _of the assassin in his mouth. His hand lifted to touch that face, and Zevran jerked back as though burned.

It hurt. ... It _hurt_. A low growl escaped the former prince; he had asked the Antivan for _nothing_ since her death, since he had been stripped of everything. And now that there was actually something he wanted to do, the elf would deny him? He stopped though, as it really began to sink in _what_ he wanted to do. What he was really asking for.

"Get out, Zevran," he said, his voice pitched low. He couldn't be held accountable for himself if the blond stayed, and for just a moment, he thought that he might get to see what he would do. Then the elf slipped out the door, only shooting him one of those _looks_. Those looks he had never learned to decipher. Alone in his rooms finally, he locked the door and turned to glance at the window. The sky was greying with the coming dawn, and he was in no mood to see it.

Was that why _she _had favored Zevran so? Had he drawn her in and kissed her breathless, leaving her aching and the taste of him still thick in her mouth? Alistair swallowed, and he reached to draw the drapes closed. Had she kissed him that way? The way that Alistair had kissed her so many times? It was dark hole that he was rabbiting down, but he couldn't help it. The questions just kept pouring into him, making his chest tight and his body ache as he fell back over the bed.

His head hung off of the far edge, and he stared at the wall upside down while the most important question of them all hit him: why did these thought not hurt the way it once had? He didn't like the thought of Zevran touching his Amell, but it wasn't just _Zevran_ touching her that was upsetting him. It was the thought that _she_ had touched **him** that was getting to him know.

He was going insane. It was the only explanation.


	3. Zevran: Confrontation

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_She was so tired of holding on. Her head ached; her body railed against the punishment that she was forcing it through. Her turquoise eyes lifted and met Jowan's grey ones, and they both drew a deep breath. They were going to pass out if the demon didn't let up soon. Beads of sweat were on their foreheads, and their hands were linked as they both struggled to keep the raging demon at bay. They only had to hold on until Alistair returned._

_The air felt achingly cold as it pushed into her lungs, but she knew that it was actually room temperature. The demon attacked them in ways they couldn't combat without injuring the boy. As both of them struggled, the demon was feeding their exhaustion, their fears. She was just so tired, and with the bitter taste of bile in her throat, she knew it had been too long since she had last slept. She was falling apart; an easy target._

_Slowly, the attack lessened, and then Connor was gasping, tears in his eyes as he looked up at her. She murmured soft words to him, reaching to touch the side of face tenderly. They all had to hold on until Alistair and the others returned with the mages. They just had to keep the demon sealed, keep her from killing anyone else._

_She felt eyes on her, and when she turned to look, she saw Teagan in the doorway. He offered her a sad smile and then stepped aside, and her knight strode in; behind him, the mages followed. She stood quickly, her robe whispering against the sheets. Now came the hard part, she realized._

_She looked up, met two pairs of dark eyes, and swallowed. She could do it. She _ _ **would** _ _ do it. She could earn the loyalty that they gave so freely to her. She could be their Warden._

**[[ ... Chapter 3 ..... ]]**

The Darkspawn were not gone. The Blight was over, but Wardens were still needed, still had to be trained, still had to be sent out. Especially close to the Wilds, the Darkspawn still had groups on the surface. They terrorized the locals, and the Wardens would have none of it. Three of the six recruits had been sent with Clovis and Julien, the Orlesian Wardens, to help fight them back, while the other three were sent to nearby cities in an attempt to recruit more.

There weren't enough of them, and Zevran wasn't good enough to simply conjure more. He couldn't leave to recruit, not with Alistair's... incident. He reached up, touching his own lips softly, distracted. He could _still _taste the former prince; the taste wouldn't be washed away, even after two glasses of wine. What had he been thinking?

When Alistair crowded him, Zevran had recognized that look. He knew the aggression in the behavior, knew that _gleam_. Alistair was about to put him in his place, and Zevran wasn't about to let him. Instead, he had thought to turn the tables, to send the blond running back into the room scared. And somehow, Alistair had managed to spin the table back right around, forcing Zevran to bolt instead. Well, perhaps not bolt literally, but he had been the one to yield for once.

Now, he sat, confusion on his face, looking at papers and not even managing to see the crests that were on them. He could only see that _expression_, lips red, cheeks flushed--

He shoved himself away from the desk. No one got under his skin this way. A kiss was just that: a kiss. It wasn't as though it were something special or ... He stopped moving suddenly, one of his hands clenching. No, it had been something special to Alistair. It had to have been, or he wouldn't have ordered Zevran out. He never used that tone, not with anyone who had known him _before_. Not with the Antivan.

He frowned before he looked up at the ceiling. Delicate stonework that even Oghren had appreciated when they came through the first time glittered in the morning light, and the elf blew out a breath forcefully, moving a few pieces of hair from his eyes. Alistair was just on the other side of that ceiling. If he wanted answers, it was the best place to start.

_She_ would have liked this, he realized wryly. Her best friend and her... lover, entangled in such a mess. No doubt it would have amused her greatly before she sat them both down and straightened it out. It was what she did. There was nothing that she couldn't single-handedly fix.

He looked back down and out the window. Late morning, getting close to noon. If Alistair slept at all the past few hours, he would be waking soon; it was as good of a time as any to approach him. The element of surprise would be on the Antivan's side, after all. He swept the papers together and shoved them into a desk drawer before he left the room, heading up toward the largest suite.

When he reached the door, he lightly tested the knob before he withdrew his favored lock pick set. Even in the keep, old habits died hard. Daggers were still tucked into hidden sheaths in boots, lock picks were still tucked into tiny pockets in his clothing. He slipped into the room noiselessly once he got the door open, taking care to shut it where Alistair wouldn't hear it. He shot a look into the room, at Alistair's form, still clothed, curled up on the bed. His hand was resting very lightly near the hilt of a sword propped up on the side of the mattress.

Old habits.

He crossed the room, his leather boots designed to be completely silent as they met the stone. No rugs in this room to muffle his movement, and he wondered idly if it was on purpose. He had once explained to Alistair that his favorite rooms to break into all had thick, plush rugs. He reached the bed, and he moved the sword first. He didn't want Alistair reaching for it on instinct and managing to turn this into a fight. It was a confrontation, not a battle. Not to mention, his own fighting skills were a little rusty, but Alistair's were downright suffering since he no longer did anything more than drills.

Once satisfied that there was nothing that Alistair could grab in an attempt to beat him off, Zevran crouched beside the bed, not putting weight on it, not wanting to wake the blond just yet. He wanted ... a minute. For once, he could see the Alistair they had known, and he realized that it must have been how _she_ had seen him. On the morning that she had died.

Swallowing hard, he didn't let himself think too long on that. She had left Alistair's bed only to approach Zevran. It had been the morning she'd extracted **the** promise.

His hand reached out and caught Alistair's chin. The Warden's eyes flew open, and he attempted to jerk away instinctively as he assessed the threat so close to him. His hands came up to wrap around Zevran's forearms, but just as they touched, he seemed to realize who it was holding him. Shock was slowly replaced by something that Zevran wasn't sure he'd ever seen on Alistair's face, something he didn't think he could name. Then anger washed it away. Oh, _there _it was. **That **was the Alistair he knew and loved so much.

"What the bloody hell-"

"Time to wake up," he said, cheerfully interrupting the warrior as he gave the face still in his hand a squeeze. Only when those lips puckered up did he drop his hand and stand, moving over to pull the drapes open. He savored the sputtering reaction, closing his eyes momentarily as he drank in the indignant noise from behind him.

Light streamed in, and for a moment, Zevran was reminded of the only other morning he'd done that with a Warden. It had been in Denerim. He swallowed and cast another glance over at the Fereldan who was pulling himself up to sit in the bed. One of his hands was rubbing at his eyes, trying to get rid of the remnants of sleep crusted around them. The motion was strangely endearing, such vulnerability being displayed without concern that it could be taken advantage of.

It was then that he knew. He couldn't confront him. Not yet. That meant that he needed another reason for being here. He frowned just slightly, and it was then he noticed the stain on Alistair's shirt. He crossed the room, throwing open the armoire when he reached it. There was nothing hanging up. All of the blond's clothes were in a pile in the bottom. He gingerly pulled out a single tunic, pinching it between his forefinger and thumb. "Are these even clean, Alistair?" He arched an eyebrow as he studied it, then deemed that it was not.

"Doesn't matter," the other man muttered rebelliously, shooting the elf a glare that he could feel through his back. This was an improvement, he decided, ignoring the venomous undertones in it. It was the beginnings of _something_. **Anything **was better than the cold flatness that Alistair had been exhibiting. "It's dry."

"So, those awful habits really were awful habits, not just _travel _habits, eh?" Zevran cast a glance back over his shoulder, then sighed as he surveyed the clothes in the bottom of the armoire. His eyes cut over to the window, and he nodded, more to himself than anything. He opened that window, then walked back to pick up the pile.

By this point, Alistair was sitting up, rubbing at his face with an aggravated muttering. Said muttering stopped the moment the clothes were tossed cheerfully out the window. That face turned pale, and he stared blankly, as though not entirely certain what he'd just seen. "Zev?" he asked, his voice quiet for once.

"Hm?" The elf didn't stop there, deciding to sweep up the rest of the clothes in the armoire as well. He headed back to the window, and Alistair made a strangled noise as he watched the rest of his clothing be tossed carelessly out.

"What... My clothes!"

"They were filthy, Alistair. You couldn't wear any of them." Then Zevran turned his appraising eyes on the tunic and trousers that Alistair was actually wearing. The Warden shot him a _look_, and then moved to stand, looking out the other window in the room, seeing where his clothes had gone. Thankfully, most of them were in a pile together still, and he figured that if he wanted, he could go down and gather them up. Levi was staring up at the keep, and Alistair growled as Zevran waved cheerfully at their mutual acquaintance.

"Come on, you," the elf looked back at Alistair, and sighed. "We'll go wash your things. They were wretched."

"We could have washed them in here! What did you throw them out the window for?" The pitiful note in the voice was heaven to Zevran's ears. It had been two months since he'd heard anything other than rage or ice from Alistair; finally, some sort of progress was being made. "We--"

"Are not carrying those down stairs and then back up again if we could just cut the work in half." Zevran's tone booked no argument, and Alistair frowned at him before he turned and left the window, heading down the stairs. The elf let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Alistair had won the first battle, now Zevran had won the second.


	4. Alistair: Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most difficult part of this piece was the fight scene. It took days before I could finally leave it alone, and I am honestly surprised at how well I think it turned out. Originally, this and the next chapter were going to be together as one, but as I worked on it, I realized that it would put chapter four far longer than any other section of the work. So they were broken up, and a POV switch put between them.

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_It had been two nights after Redcliffe that she had first approached him. The deaths there weighed heavily on her, causing her to lose sleep, to lose her sense of ... everything. He could see it, and it shocked him that none of their companions could. She had invited him into the tent, and he had gone, eager to do something for her, _ _ **anything ** _ _for her._

_It had broken his heart. She asked only that he hold her, that he not stop her, that he simply...be there. And she had cried. The tears were endless, streaming down her face, glistening in what little light crept into the tent with them. She made not a sound, and if he tried to speak, she placed a finger over his mouth. Her head on his chest, his arms around her, he had closed his own eyes, and tried not to feel the wetness staining his shirt._

_It had been the first time he'd felt true contempt for her choice in lovers. She chose someone who she didn't feel that she could share this with, someone who had lied to her. Someone she didn't-- _ _ **couldn't** _ _\-- trust. He had felt each of those tears, and he had wanted to remove them forcibly from the prince standing across the fire from them. She deserved better._

_And yet, it wasn't his decision to make. So he simply held her and rubbed her back. He whispered soft nothings to her, telling her that it would be all right, that she would forgive this and soon things would be back to normal between them. He knew what it looked like when it became an almost nightly thing, and he didn't care. No one dared ask outright about it, and when the almost Templar glared at him from across the fire, he only offered a smug smile. He was closer to her than the warrior would ever be. He held her tears._

**[[ ... Chapter 4 ..... ]]**

Laundry was only the first step of Alistair's rehabilitation, and he realized this slowly over the course of the next week and a half. There were no more kisses, no more blatant acts of dominance between the two of them, but they still caught one another staring as they crossed paths, over meals, or just whenever one of them happened to be nearby. It was unnerving, Alistair realized.

He had known the moment he was told who his father was that if his birthright ever came out, he would be stared at. He had accepted it, and once it _had_ come out, it had only proven him right. Everyone stared. However, _not_ everyone stared with the same intensity that Zevran managed. The heat in that gaze practically burned Alistair's flesh, and he was somehow comforted by it. Strange, he realized, for him to be so desired by a man who could have just about anyone in the kingdom. It gave him a confidence that he'd not had since **she** had died, since her own gaze--so similar--had been removed forever.

Now, with this gaze lingering over him on such frequent occasions, he found himself affected by it. At times, he never wanted it stop, and others, he wanted nothing more than to hit the Antivan, anger bubbling up, left over from their original travels together. It was only a matter of time before it came up, before it became a problem.

He forced his attention to the present, to looking at the elf with the daggers strapped on his hips. They were outside, and for a moment, he almost demanded that they move indoors. The sunlight was playing over that lithe form, caressing and teasing and drawing attention to things that Alistair had never been one to notice before. And by the _Maker_, when Zevran stripped off his shirt--

He had not **outwardly **reacted. Instead, he had only done the same, dropping his tunic onto the ground nearby. The sword in his hand was lighter than the any that he'd used during the Blight; it would make him faster, but it also meant that he had to keep his strength in check. He could easily swing it with far more force than he intended. He dropped the scabbard; it clattered on the cobblestones.

Zevran took out both daggers then, tossing one idly, flipping it up into the air before catching it again. It was a slick movement, designed to intimidate. Alistair had seen him use it many times before, and he never stopped wondering how long it had taken him to get good at it. Shoulders were rolled, and backs popped as both men stretched, and then battle positions were assumed.

He didn't have a shield--it would be almost useless against a pair of flashing daggers--so he adopted a simple guard. He would have to rely on reflexes. To make this worse, he was out of practice. The Antivan had been practicing almost daily with the recruits, while Alistair had done little more than endless drills, if not in his room then in the training room. It gave him a distinct disadvantage. He studied Zevran's 'ready' pose, almost amused at how open the elf left himself; it was bait.

Their eyes met, and an almost feral grin lit the elf as he began to circle. Alistair pivoted, keeping his gaze locked on the other man, following his movements carefully before he began to match steps to maintain the distance between them. They knew each other's movements; had done this for months while they endeavored to end the Blight. It was a dance that both of them, once, had been exceptionally proficient in.

Now, the rhythm of it was coming back slowly, and Alistair was ready to leap back at the sharp kick that came toward him. For all of the flash with the weapons, Zevran preferred to take his opponent by surprise, to disable him as early as was possible. Taking advantage of the moment that he would be off balance, Alistair drove the tip of the sword toward his opponent. A crash sounded as he slid the length of the blade against a dagger; the motion bringing him close to the Antivan.

For just a moment, they both hesitated, so close to one another that the heat radiating between their bodies was unbearable. Then the other dagger came flashing in, taking advantage of the distraction, and Alistair was almost too slow. He leapt back, swinging his sword around to deflect the smaller blade. There was a crash as metal hit metal, and he stepped back further, wanting distance between them. Distance was safer.

He let the elf charge him, let the assassin lead in each attack, using minimal energy to simply deflect, divert the sharp blades angling for him. He wanted to lure Zevran into getting sloppy, and he knew it was starting to work when he heard the first soft growl from the other man. If the Antivan had one particular weakness, it was that he hated Alistair "turtling" against him during training.

When he saw his chance, he lunged, crashing the length of the sword against one of Zevran's daggers, his free hand twisting to catch the blond's wrist when he tried to counter. He pushed the sword and dagger away in a clean motion, gaining the upper hand since the other man didn't expect for him to throw away his own weapon as well. His hand shot out and wrapped around the elf's throat, and he squeezed the hand holding the wrist.

The second dagger clattered to the ground, and Alistair stood there for several heartbeats, holding him close, hand still around his throat. He leaned down, closing the distance between them. The feel of Zevran, so close, so _hot_ next to him--jolts of pleasure down his spine as he felt Zevran swallow, those dark eyes shielded.

The Antivan had initiated the first kiss, and Alistair would be damned if the score was settled there. He made a low, strangled noise when he saw a pink tongue dart out to wet those lips, and he couldn't stop himself as he covered that mouth with his own. His tongue touched those lips, tasted the other man, drank him in.

Soon, his hand had migrated from around the throat into that long blond hair, and Zevran's hands were squeezing his upper arms, then wrapping around him, holding him closer. His own other hand slid down the side of the elf, tracing over that bare chest, slick with sweat, and down those hips to caress the top of a sleekly muscled thigh. He caught it, pulled it up, coaxing Zevran to wrap that leg around him, to open himself up, to be _vulnerable_, for once.

By the time he drew back, he was lightheaded, his vision swimming as he opened his eyes to look down at Zevran. His hand eased from the length of hair down to touch the side of the face looking up at him. blond eyebrows were drawn low over dark eyes, and Zevran was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as he tried to read the mood of the man holding him so firmly, so ... closely.

There was a moment of silence, and then Alistair swept the other man in his arms. They were still in the middle of the courtyard, their blades scattered with their shirts, but he didn't care. He needed to know something, and he didn't want to risk Levi or anyone else interrupting. He marched inside, holding Zevran as though he weighed little to nothing at all.

"Just where are we going, Alistair?" The Antivan's voice was soft, steady, and the former prince was _certain_ that he detected no small amount of amusement in it. He swallowed, but didn't answer, instead allowing his captive to determine his own answer to the question. It was a stupid question anyway.

"I know that technically, I am your prisoner of war, but I must tell you... I have never succumbed to torture before--"

"Just shut up," Alistair's own voice was far less steady. It shook, with something bordering on the knife's edge between anger and arousal. He glanced at the stairs toward his own room, where he would have preferred to do this, but he wasn't certain he could take the stairs, not with the Antivan beginning to squirm in his arms the way he was.

Instead, he swung around toward Zevran's room, nudging the door open carefully before he dropped the other man on his own bed. He turned back to the door, shut, and locked it. Then he looked back at Zevran; there was something... dangerous about him, and he wasn't quite sure he was in complete control of himself. He did know, however, that the blond on the bed looked thoroughly wary, a stalking cat staring down a wolf over a particularly tasty morsel.

He approached him slowly, and Zevran slowly eased back on the bed. By the time they were settled, Zevran's back was flat against the wall, Alistair straddling his hips, hands on either side of the blond's head. Lips met again, and this time, it was measured, controlled. Passion was toned down, as Alistair _studied_ the way their tongue touched and stroked, the way that both of their breathing rose, the way that he could feel the other man swelling under him.

He had never felt this way before. Loving _her_ hadn't done this to him, made him this crazy, this...uncontrolled. She had been a safe love; he'd had to be careful with her, lest he break her. This man under him...he could be rough with. He could let _go_. Zevran would be able to not only take it, but give it back just as good as he could possibly give. He knew that, although he wasn't certain how, and he wasn't sure he wanted to test it. No matter how aroused he got, he knew that it was a line that he'd never crossed, and it was one that he wasn't sure he could.

Casual sex was not something he saw himself able to do. Of course, the only sex he'd ever had had been with her, and she'd thrown it back in his face. He swallowed, and when he could manage to speak, he found himself surprised by what came out: "I want you, Zevran."


	5. Zevran: Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, I can be forgiven for that cliffhanger on the previous chapter. I did my best to make up for it, so...without further ado, please enjoy!

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_He didn't understand her; never had. Every night, the Antivan crept into her tent, and by the time he finally left, it would be almost morning light. It was killing him. He felt, each time that the sun went down, like his heart was breaking. She would come out each morning, smiling and cheerful, and how could he laugh and joke with her when he knew that it had to be due to the assassin?_

_He simply swallowed his resentment, and he backed off. He didn't have any claim to her; they were Wardens, not lovers. They were brother and sister in arms, united against the Darkspawn, not united together in any other way. How could he even attempt to level a claim on her when he had lied to her the entire time they had been together? Her face when he'd told her--_

_It had been the first crack in his armor, and it must have driven her to Zevran for comfort, because it was after Redcliffe that she'd begun to seek out the elf's company. It had not escaped anyone else's notice either, and he had felt the pitying looks shot toward him from Leliana and Wynne both. It was enough to make him scream._

_Instead, he found himself exchanging dirty looks with the other man, the only other member of their party who held her attention as easily as he could. He just needed a way to wipe that smug grin off of that elven face; he needed something to give himself the upper hand again. Any moment that she didn't command his attention, he spent thinking about ways to one up the Antivan, to prove his incompetence. Grudgingly, he had to admit: it was far more difficult than he thought it should be._

**[[ ... Chapter 5 ..... ]]**

"I want you, Zevran." Alistair's voice was just above a whisper, the words literally breathed over his lips. Those words did things to the elf, reaching in and stroking parts of him that he had never thought that _Alistair_ would be able, or willing, to reach.

For a long moment, the words remained in the air between them. Then, slowly, the warrior dipped his head down to touch his lips to Zevran's again, his hands burying themselves in blond hair, twisting his fingers around locks of it. Bare chests pressed together, and Zevran felt everything good that _she_ had instilled into him beginning to drain away. Every honorable notion, every heroic aspect that she had inspired; he could _feel _them cracking and falling away to shatter on the floor. It had been... too long.

Then, when one of those hands slid down over his shoulder, over his chest, and found a peaked nipple to touch, to press... He couldn't stop the low groan that escaped him, only to be swallowed by the mouth so hungrily devouring him. It was unpracticed, clumsy even, but it sparked him none the less. He pressed his hips up against the thigh that Alistair had so firmly wedged between his legs, and he dropped his head back to breathe when those lips finally released him to begin kissing down his throat.

This was a potent combination, he realized slowly, barely able to form a coherent thought at all. Alistair was **never **so forward, so _demanding_, and Zevran was **never **this... passive. He hadn't been this passive since he had been inexperienced, first learning the art of seduction. And even then, he'd had an enthusiasm that didn't lend itself to laying still and _allowing_ someone else to touch him this way.

In a way, it was a first for each of them.

Heat and wetness touched his nipple, and he gasped at the feel of that hand moving further down, stopping on his hips. Brown eyes opened to look at the former prince, and slowly, Alistair drew back, pulling the tight bud of flesh in his mouth until he couldn't any longer. When it slipped from his lips, he languished his tongue over it, and Zevran drew a deep breath, steadying himself against this sort of an assault. It wasn't the sort of tactics that he was used to.

One didn't seduce the target with long, drugging kisses; kisses that spoke of romance and passion beyond a simple night of pleasure. One didn't cover the target's body with a mouth that seemed to drink in every taste of sweat and salt and arousal that clung, a second skin. One _didn't_ look at the target with the heart in the eyes.

Were this a rough or rushed or more punishing seduction, he could have fought it. He would have known what he was up against, would have been able to defend against it properly. But this... this was sitting at a high stakes poker game and not knowing the rules. This was engaging in a duel with a sword, only to discover that the weapon of choice was a bow. This was the sort of insanity he knew he should have grown to expect from wardens.

Wardens had been turning his life upside down ever since he left Antiva. Ever since--

That tongue was tasting his stomach now, and trembling hands were fumbling with the belt buckle. He couldn't stop the slight moan that escaped him as inexperienced fingers brushed against his aching length, applying only enough pressure to tease, and even that was by accident. He was being **seduced **by an _innocent_.

"Alistair," he said, softly, and when the warrior looked up at him, he swallowed. There was fear in that naked gaze, fear of rejection? Of acceptance? He wasn't sure, and he forced his fingers from their grip on the blanket under him to touch the sides of the other man's face.

"Z-Zev?" _There _it was; that innocence. Nerves that came only from knowing that you wanted something, but being unable to pinpoint exactly what it was. Or being scared that you **did **know what it was you desired so strongly, and knowing that it was something you might not be ready for.

The Antivan eased his fingers into that blond hair, and he gently led his partner back up so that he was within kissing distance. Taking a page from Alistair's book, he leaned up and pressed their lips together, teeth nipping, tongue teasing. His hands slid down over the muscled chest on top of him, and when he reached the other man's belt, he deftly removed it. This was his territory; he _knew_ what he was doing here, even if he didn't know why.

Alistair needed this; this closeness, this intimacy. She had gotten him so used to it, and then... And then she was gone. And Alistair was left, alone and in the cold. Without his guiding star.

Trousers were opened and his slender fingers very carefully eased Alistair's length from the confining leather. Wrapping around him and _stroking_, Zevran drew away from the kiss to let the other man breathe. The Warden was trembling, stretched out over the elf, weight held off of him by knees and elbows. As Zevran shifted under him, the hand wrapped around his length twisted just right, just so that it rubbed over him the way he liked it. He let out a shuddering cry, and Zevran knew he would be able to _feel_ the Antivan's arousal, pressing against his thigh the way that it was.

_He didn't care._

This wasn't about him; it wasn't about mutual returns. It was about Alistair; about _her_. It was about giving the Warden some sort of relief to the pain that was cutting so deep. He could feel the other man tightening, hear him whimpering, and Zevran closed his eyes, preparing for it. He continued to pull, squeezing just enough to offer some more friction. The feel of Alistair's release on his skin was almost to much to bear, as it spread, hot and sticky, over his stomach.

Sweat and musk was thick in the air, and Alistair was still trembling over him. Carefully, Zevran shifted under him. He wasn't self conscious about laying there, another man's seed over his belly, but he _did_ know that it was going to be exceptionally uncomfortable if he let it dry there; he wasn't planning on doing that. Slowly, he coaxed the other man to lay down-- it was difficult only due to his certainty that Alistair was going to fall if moved-- and he got off of the bed himself, careful not to stain the blanket in the process.

He found a scrap of some cloth to clean up with after only a few minutes of looking, and he purposely took far longer than was strictly necessary to clean himself up. He was waiting for the fallout, for Alistair to realize _what_ just happened. The assassin tossed the cloth to the warrior and started fixing his own belt. It had never even come all the way unhooked, he realized. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

He turned then to face the other man, looking at him carefully. Alistair was sitting up, a guarded expression on his face. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, and so, the assassin moved over carefully to sit on the edge of the bed. He offered a little grin, deciding it would be best to attempt to put his companion at ease with their situation. Nothing was expected; nothing was owed here. It was a simple... favor.

"Well now... You are feeling better, no?" He arched an eyebrow curiously.

"I..." The hesitation was adorable-- so shy after such an intimate moment-- and Alistair was even blushing just slightly. "Well, yeah," he finally muttered, his voice defensive as he looked away. Then, he seemed to find that nerve again, because he glanced back up at Zevran. "You aren't."

It wasn't a question, and Zevran saw no need to attempt to hide it or argue with it. That would only insult them both. "No, but it is none of your concern. Alistair, you owe me nothing for this."

There was a minute or two when the Antivan honestly believed he had gotten through to the other man, but when it was clear he hadn't when Alistair reached for him, _that look_ in his eyes again. This time, Zevran was ready, and he leaned easily out of reach, standing as though he needed to fetch something. The scowl that met him on Alistair's face was worth the physical discomfort that was restrained so tightly in his pants.

He moved over to stand in front of his window, pointedly _not_ looking at Alistair. He didn't want to encourage this. It wasn't in either of their best interest, since the former prince would be unable to keep himself from becoming emotionally entangled. He would never be able to see it as simple pleasure. And Zevran was no babysitter. He was filling a promise, erasing a debt that had existed between himself and _her_.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts and the _ache_ between his legs that he didn't notice Alistair closing the distance between them until he felt that bare body behind his. His eyes closed at the sensation of someone tugging him back, of someone pressing up against him that way, so close that all he could smell, all he could sense was their body. At some point, the trousers had been removed.

He hesitated.

Alistair turned him around slowly, heat burning in those eyes. A dark gaze raked openly down over him; well, as much over him as it could with them pressed together so. He could feel the Fereldan's arousal building again, swelling against him.

The Antivan swallowed.

Lips pressed against his, and he surrendered, unable to fight it any longer. He was no saint; if Alistair was going to pursue this, he wasn't going to argue. He had simply wanted to make **sure **that _this_ was what the other man wanted. He wanted there to be no regrets, no accusations afterward. _No one_ was forcing this.

Those kisses were his undoing. He wasn't accustomed to such gentle teasing, to such tender ministrations. He wasn't used to being robbed of all sense, kissed until the only thing in his head was the taste of his partner's mouth. He felt the bed behind him again, and he eased back onto it, not wanting to draw too far away, lest Alistair change his mind.

Fingers that no longer shook with need swiftly unbuckled his belt; hands that had never touched another man this way slid the trousers down. The Warden finally pulled back from the kiss, leaning back enough that he could really _look_ at the elf laying under him, whose hands tangled in the blankets as he returned the gaze.

Zevran _knew_ that he was attractive; it was a large reason why he had been a Crow. However, it was rare to see such sincere appreciation of his body, particularly since this gaze held no darker tone, no hidden desires. He stretched just a little, and when Alistair's breath hitched, he smiled.

"Zev," the Warden whispered, and for a moment the Anitvan simply savored the curls of heat that the voice brought with it. "I... I don't want to hurt you."

The assassin nodded faintly. It was now or never. He reached out and felt for the nightstand nearest the bed. Getting the drawer open, he managed to wrap his hand around a vial, which he pressed into the other man's hand. "You won't," he murmured as Alistair uncorked the vial. He drew a deep breath, and then he repositioned under his companion, his knees hooking over broad shoulders. How could he be nervous?

Alistair took his time oiling one finger, and Zevran realized a little late that he had expected the other man to know... something. Anything. But then that finger was pushing _inside_, and all thought fled. It had been a long time since Zevran had lain under anyone like this: at their mercy. He didn't like that part, but the _sensations_ that the Warden was sparking inside of him--

He moaned as another finger joined the first, and he lost track as Alistair clearly began to get more comfortable with what he was doing. His fingers tangled in the blanket under him, and he gasped sharply as he felt something larger than fingers beginning to push. There was a hiss from his companion, his _lover_, as Alistair managed to push all the way in, and for several minutes they just stayed there like that. Sweat rolled down their bodies as they stayed still, and it was only after Zevran's fingers loosened their hold on the blanket that Alistair began to _move_.

Moans punctuated thrusts, and when the former prince managed to get his hand wrapped around the assassin's length... well, that was the beginning of the end. The sensations of being so uncomfortably _full_ were too much to bear, and Zevran was soon crying out, moaning and begging Alistair not to stop. Nothing else mattered; nothing beyond the friction and the heat consuming him, the pressure of something stretching him.

The thrusts sped up, and soon Zevran's fingers were tight in the blanket again. He was pulling down with his calves, trying to angle to make Alistair slide in deeper, trying to twist his hips to make him move faster. The hand around him squeezed, and Zevran felt himself shatter, hot relief surging out of him and over his own chest. He couldn't stop himself from tightening around his lover, and the motion was enough to send Alistair over as well, this time emptying _into _the Antivan.

For a moment, they didn't move, and then the warrior very carefully eased back, letting Zevran down onto the blanket slowly. He fetched the cloth and handed it to the other man, almost shy now, in spite of what had just happened. There was silence as the assassin attempted to clean up. So much for trying not to stain the blanket, he realized wearily, and he sneaked a glance at the blond with him.

Alistair was watching him, his expression shuttered again. He couldn't tell what the other man was thinking, and he didn't like it. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, they could both hear it: sounded trumpets. A noble was coming.


	6. Teagan: Visitors

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_The moment of triumph came the first time they stepped into Denerim. Their group split up, and when it was all over and done with, only the assassin, the templar, and the mage were standing together. The three of them exchanged looks, and she tossed her head, brushing her hair back as she strode into the marketplace. Both men followed her, well aware that they were at her mercy when it came to decisions._

_Except that Alistair stopped in front a house. Children were playing in front of it, and he couldn't help himself. He knew the house, the location at least. He knew who lived there. Sweat beaded up; his hands were clammy. She noticed. Of course she noticed. She saw everything that went on with those who traveled at her side. The Antivan noticed as well, although he didn't say a word. She cast him a glance, and he slipped away, giving them some semblance of privacy._

_She was with him as they confronted his sister, as he reached out, only to have his hand slapped, his charity thrown back in his face. _ _ **She** _ _ watched him at his most humiliated, and when he couldn't stop the tears from spilling over, she was the one who reached up, who wiped them away. She was the one who held him, and whispered quietly to him that it would all be okay._

_It marked the first night since Redcliffe that Zevran was not asked to join her._

**[[ ... Chapter 6 ..... ]]**

He was frowning, kneeling in the courtyard as he studied the footprints left in the dirt. It was easy enough to read, since it was clearly swept each morning. The only tracks there had been left within the past few hours. He reached out, one of his fingers lightly touching the outer edge of a particularly deep print. Then he sighed and stood back up, his eyes cutting over to the sword and dagger laying close to a tunic.

It didn't look like a struggle; it looked like a sparring match had taken place. He glanced back down, trying to figure out what exactly had interrupted the two. There was no blood, so it hadn't been a wound. Yet, clearly, one of them had felt the other incapable of walking, because only one set of prints led back into the keep.

He was still frowning when the doors opened, and a blond stepped out. Alistair was still shirtless, his tunic being in a wad near the blades, and he had clearly been exerting some kind of energy; sweat still clung to him. They both grinned at each other and clasped arms, a warrior's greeting, although everyone knew it was only for show.

Bann Teagan Guerrin was no warrior.

"Alistair," he said, breaking the silence first. It was only fair. He had not warned anyone of this trip, after all; it would hardly be sporting to expect the full treatment a guest would get. "How have you fared these past weeks?" It wasn't the right thing to say; he saw that immediately. Alistair seemed to simply shut down, the grin fading, the light in his eyes darkening. The rumors were true then.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," the blond said softly, looking past Teagan toward the two men he had brought with him. It had been at Eamon's insistence. No one wanted Rainesfere, a tiny province of Redcliffe squeezed between the Frostback Mountains and Lake Calenhad.

There was silence, and then Teagan slapped Alistair's upper arm playfully before motioning his men into the keep. "No point in standing around out here. Let's go in and find somewhere to settle down for the evening." He didn't wait for Alistair's invitation, because he knew that it would never even occur to the younger man that he was supposed to be the one to extend it. He was still not really aware that he _was_ the Warden of Ferelden. When someone said Grey Warden, it was Alistair they thought of, not Amell.

By the time they were settled in for the night, Alistair had left them, offering to give them some time to clean up. There were plenty of rooms open; clearly, the keep could house many wardens, because this didn't even include the barracks for the recruits. They had passed those on the way in. Teagan lifted a hand to touch the stone walls lightly, studying them. It made him think of Redcliffe, although he wasn't certain it was that it _actually_ reminded him of Redcliffe, or that he simply compared all castles to Redcliffe.

By the time that they had each hauled up enough water for their own baths, Teagan realized that he was starving. He wasn't about to wait around for Alistair to find him and offer anything either. He headed down the stairs, leaving his men in the rooms to finish whatever they were doing. He didn't care. He had come here on a job, and he wasn't leaving until he was sure he'd managed it. Those men would be leaving on the morrow in any case; there was no point in trying to keep up with them right then.

He found the kitchen easily enough, and his brow furrowed as he realized that there was no one there. No one at all. He frowned again. It seemed that most of this trip was going to be frowning. Then again, where princes were concerned, wasn't frowning normally the best course of action? Eamon had certainly employed it often enough to get results. He had almost managed to get a king out of carefully positioned expressions of disappointment.

"Alistair will not hire servants yet," a voice called from the doorway, and Teagan quickly turned, his eyes raking over the lithe form. "He says that they are unnecessary with our numbers being so few." A sardonic grin was on that elvish face. It was the Crow, the one that _she_ had picked up; the one that Alistair had grated against every chance he got. He couldn't remember the name that went with that particular grin. "_I_ think that it would be lovely to get a proper meal once in a while. Alistair's lamb is enough to make anyone beg for something else though."

"Is it now?" Teagan smiled, trying to picture Alistair cooking. To be honest, he didn't really know much about the man that he had become. The last time they'd seen one another was Recliffe, and before that, he'd only seen Alistair, covered in mud, while he tried to explain to Eamon that he had _not_ been fighting, but instead fell. For all the child's good-natured smiles, he'd not really gotten along with any other children in the castle. It had manifested a number of ways, from fights to getting locked in cages for an entire day.

"Oh, it truly is awful." The _serious_ expression is what did him in, Teagan decided, unable to stop the laugh that escaped him. The elf was nodding just slightly, as though his words were Maker-inspired, infallible.

"What is, Zev?" The voice that interrupted them was cold, and for a moment, the Bann didn't recognize it. When he turned and saw Alistair there, he felt strange, as though he'd been caught doing something wrong. That disapproving glare was Eamon's own, and Teagan found it just a little disconcerting how easily it seemed to come to the younger man.

"What you call your cooking." Zev seemed highly amused at Alistair's timing, and Teagan quickly averted his face so that the almost-Templar couldn't see the smile on his features. The last thing he needed was Alistair getting defensive on him, much better to let him be defensive against the elf and look to Teagan for support.

Alistair sputtered for a moment, and then he scowled and muttered, "There's nothing wrong with my cooking. It's just simple." He didn't wait for Zevran's response; instead, he looked over at the Bann instead. "What are you doing here, Teagan?" he asked, his gaze suspicious. It hadn't been that way before the Blight, but then again, none of them had survived the Blight intact. Everyone had lost something.

Teagan sighed faintly, knowing that he couldn't put it off forever. "There's been trouble, Alistair. I don't know how much you've heard, but a great many of the Banns are concerned that you are unfit to lead the Wardens. No one has heard directly from you since the Blight. The only reason no one is here to take you down is the overwhelming support from Eamon and the Cousland youth. Fergus, I think it is?"

A slow nod let him know the blond was listening, in spite of a distracted expression. Zevran, however, was the one leaning closer, his dark eyes concerned. "Could they actually do anything? Alistair is a Warden; there is no changing that."

"That's true; however, they could request a new head Warden from Weisshaupt Fortress. It would take a few months, but it is an option. One that several Banns are beginning to support." Teagan leaned back as he spoke, stopping only once his hip had settled firmly against a counter top.

"You couldn't just write this? You had to come all the way out here to tell me in person?" There was no attempt to hide the disbelief, neither in his voice nor on his face. "Tell me Teagan... why are _you_ here? You could have just sent someone if you wanted."

A bland smile crossed his face, and the Bann lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Eamon," he said simply, and a knowing look crossed Alistair's face. "He's still not pleased that you're here instead of in Denerim, but he's not about to let anyone overthrow you here." He crossed his arms, studying the two men in front of him curiously. Of all of the Warden's companions, he'd never expected the elf to be the one to stay. There was something going on here that he didn't know, and judging from their exchange of looks, something significant.

"You make it sound like I'm ruling here. It's not like that--"

"It's exactly like that, Alistair. I've told you before, kings make for excellent business. Even almost kings." Then Zevran was moving, checking the coals in the fireplace. If they were going to eat, someone was going to have to cook.

"It was never anywhere close to that. We supported Anora the whole way through. She _knew_ I didn't want to be king. Eamon knew that as well." The glare was turned back onto Teagan, who simply decided it was in his best interest to attempt to find something that could be fixed into a passable meal. There had to be meat and potatoes in this kitchen somewhere, no Ferelden kitchen would be without those two staples.

"He did. He honestly expected you to bow to him in his demand that you claim the throne though." Potatoes were discovered, and Teagan tossed them, one at a time, to Alistair. The blond didn't even argue, just scowled again before he found a knife to peel them with. "I think you would have, too, had it not been for--" He caught the warning look from Zevran and hesitated. The name hung, unspoken in the air. It shimmered and twisted, almost _begging_ to be acknowledged.

All three of them remained silent.

Teagan glanced over. Zevran had found meat somewhere, and he was already slicing it. There was no telling how or where the meat was kept, but when Teagan took a piece to help cut, he realized that it was cold, almost frozen. The Antivan must have seen his confusion, because he offered a little grin. "There's an enchanted room just over there. It keeps things cold. Wardens are useful in many ways, it would seem."

"It would seem so," Teagan agreed, and the three of them fell silent as they worked. Finally, they got dinner into a pot over the fire, and the Bann took up the task of watching it. Alistair had an iron stomach and wouldn't think twice about over cooking, or even burning their dinner. "How many Wardens do you have, Alistair?" He shot another look toward the two men. Zevran looked at ease, feet propped up on the table, while Alistair kept giving him dirty looks that the elf was pointedly ignoring.

"Six," the Antivan replied when it became clear that Alistair was more concerned about his feet being on the table. "All from Denerim."

"I thought Anora sent twenty five men with you." A shrug greeted his words, and Teagan frowned. "Out of the _twenty five_, only **six **were suitable?"

"Only six became Wardens," Zevran corrected smoothly. "The others were... not as determined." Another significant look between the two, and Teagan could feel his control slipping. There was more going on here than anyone had known. More than anyone had even guessed.

"Where are these six?"

"Out. We've had requests for some assistance with a few Darkspawn bands in the south. The Orlesian Wardens are with them."

Teagan narrowed his eyes at Alistair, who had apparently given up trying to get Zevran to move. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, looking at the table. "Alistair," he began carefully, "how many did Duncan have before Ostagar?"

Another moment of silence, and then the former prince murmured, "About two dozen."

Conversation died then, as Teagan's two men, Colban and Dubne, apparently discovered the kitchen. If they were surprised to see their Bann sitting at the fire, stirring a pot, they didn't show it. They were good men, and now that Teagan had seen how much work he had ahead of him, he knew he couldn't ask them to stay the whole time. He would send them home; both of them had wives, and they had accompanied him from Redcliffe to Denerim before this excursion to the Wardens' Keep.

Dinner was simple-- a hash made from potatoes, meat, and onion-- but it was filling, which was all that mattered. To Teagan and his men, it was wonderful, as the first meal after being on the road always was. By the time they were all done, the visitors excused themselves. His men headed out to survey the keep, and Teagan sat down at the desk in his room. He quickly penned a letter. He would send Colban and Dubne out on the morrow to deliver it to Eamon; it was full of notes and requests. If they were going to get Alistair fit to lead the Wardens, they were going to need help.


	7. Alistair: Planning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I spent the last several days-- as of the 21st of February, 2010-- reworking the first six chapters of the piece. They have more cohesive pre-chapters now (and Chapter 2 finally **got** a pre-chapter), and two of the chapters have been extensively rewritten (chapters 1 and 3). In fact, Chapter 1 has almost doubled in length. If you haven't already, I highly recommend that you **re-read** the first six chapters before reading this one, as I cannot guarantee that it makes no mention to new material introduced. All in all, I added almost** 2000 words** to the story before adding in this chapter.
> 
> As always, please remember to _read _and **review **(constructive criticism welcome).

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_He knew he was losing her to the templar, no matter how many secrets they had exchanged, no matter how many nights he had sacrificed to holding her, rocking her. No matter how many chaste kisses he had pressed to her forehead, no matter how many times he had managed to keep himself on a leash, to keep from pressuring her, from _ _ **begging ** _ _her. He couldn't stand to lose her. Not to him._

_The first chance he got to approach her was on watch. He slid down to sit next to her, pulling his knees up against his chest as they both were silent. Any thought of confronting her went out the proverbial window as soon as he saw her. She looked at him; he stared into the wilderness. She saw him starting to move and looked away quickly as he lifted his dark gaze to her. They were avoiding it, not wanting to admit to anything. He knew that he would do anything for her, even if her choice was another. How could he do otherwise?_

_They were companions; he understood her on levels that not a one of their traveling party could. A faint smile curved his narrow lips. He understood her weaknesses; he appreciated her for them. She was as flawed as any of them, and it made her all that much more beautiful because of them. He reached for her, and she broke under his touch, as she always did._

_They sat through the tears, and when she finally composed herself again, he leaned down, his mouth just inches above the top of her head. His eyes closed; he breathed in her scent. They both had weaknesses, and in fact, they shared at least one: they _ _ **both ** _ _had a soft spot for noble men._

**[[ ... Chapter 7 ..... ]]**

The keep was no where near as quiet as it normally was in the early morning, Alistair realized as he walked down the stairs toward the courtyard. Levi and his family were out already, laughing and talking; Teagan was shipping out his two men, sending letters and Maker only knew what else to Eamon. He frowned as he stepped outside in the sunlight. Men were coming back in; looked like Julien and one of the recruits-- Luthanuel, he thought it looked like. They were walking their horses in, a handful of people behind them-- three men and a woman. All of them wore traveling gear, and there was a mule packed with armor and weaponry trailing behind.

The almost Templar stepped lightly to avoid the little herd of sheep being shepherded across the courtyard, and he shot a glance over to the dark skinned elf arguing with Teagan. Whatever they were saying, he couldn't hear, but he didn't like the expression on the older man's face. No one was allowed to make that expression toward the assassin except for _him_. He started toward them, but a hand caught him, pulling him back.

Julien, one of the Orlesian Wardens, offered him a little grin. "We have more recruits," he said cheerfully, and Alistair felt his hand clench. More bodies to burn behind the keep, more families who would never know anything if their children didn't survive the Joining. The Orlesian saw the anger on his face, and he quickly tugged Alistair further back from the chaos spilling into the courtyard. "We don't have a choice," he whispered, and quickly the former prince looked away.

"I _know_," he hissed between clenched teeth. He glanced up at the newest warm bodies. The woman was muscled; from the way her clothes fit, he guessed she had been a smith or a soldier. Her hair was dark, swept up into a no nonsense braid that kept it out of her face. She smiled at him. Two of the men were probably brothers, as they had hair the exact same shade of red. They were unloading the mule, laughing over something. It was the last man that caught and held Alistair's gaze however. Black hair, filthy robes, achingly thin. He looked as though he just came out of a prison.

"What is _he_ doing here?" His voice was shockingly calm, considering he was staring at the mage responsible for the entire mess at Redcliffe during the Blight. The single person who had almost guaranteed Loghain's victory. How Jowan was even alive was beyond his comprehension.

"Found him in Redcliffe." Julien didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. He was looking over his shoulder at the mage with an air of pride. "They had apparently forgotten he was in their prisons. Luckily, a few maids took pity on him and kept sneaking him food anyway. Used the Right of Conscription, and Arl Eamon handed him right on over. He seemed glad to get rid of him, honestly."

"He's _supposed _to be dead. Why was he not returned to the Circle?"

Apparently, his tone was beginning to sink in, because the small man looked over at him. His blue eyes were intent as he studied the Fereldan. "The Blight happened. His sentence was never carried out before the march to Denerim, and by the time they got back, Eamon was still recovering from the fight. The Circle claimed him, and never sent anyone to fetch him. The past few months, he's just been waiting for someone to come and put him to death."

Alistair's jaw clenched. He didn't want anyone who had shared a past with _her_ here, least of all her best friend from the tower. Someone who had betrayed her. "He's a **blood mage**. Are you _aware _of his crimes?"

"Indeed." Julien's grin came easily, Alistair saw, because there it was again, beaming up at him. "And I spoke to him about his situation. He's more than willing to go through whatever we deem necessary to prove his loyalty to our cause. If you don't want him, _Orlais _will be happy to take him. We can always use another mage."

"No." The warrior answered more quickly than he should have, and the Orlesian arched an eyebrow at him. "No, I'll... we'll take him." He blew out a deep breath, frowning all the while. Julien saluted him with a little wry smile, then headed back over to the group, clearly organizing them. Alistair would be damned before he let someone like Jowan escape to Orlais. It was better that he remain where he could be watched by those who _knew_ what he was capable of.

He shot another glare toward the mage, then caught Zevran's eyes and jerked his head. The elf frowned, nodded, and clearly made his excuses with Teagan before he headed over. Alistair opened his mouth, hesitated, and then grabbed Zevran's elbow and dragged him inside. The courtyard was not exactly the most private of locations, and he didn't want to be overheard. Zevran's room was the closest for privacy, and he headed there.

"I am not normally one to say 'no,' Alistair, but--"

"It's not that," he said quickly, pushing the door open. "I needed to talk to you."

The Antivan shrugged, looking away as he moved to sit lightly on the edge of the desk in his room. He looked comfortable enough, and Alistair considered the available seating in the room for only a moment before he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached up and rubbed his face with one hand before he found the thread of conversation he wanted to start with.

"How bad is our situation? Really?"

"Truly?" Zevran's voice was smooth as silk, not concerned, not stressed at all. It was one of the few things that had kept Alistair sane. No matter how nosey or out of line the elf seemed to get, he was always calm about it. "It's bad, Alistair." He heard the other man shifting his weight, and he turned around so that he was facing the assassin. "We are keeping ahead by not demanding tithes owed to us or demanding a constant stream of recruits. We're well within our rights to do so, but I thought it would be a bit ... impolitic."

A faint smile lit the templar's face. Zevran, concerned about being impolitic? _That_ was new. "So, the complaint is that I'm unfit?"

"It is that no one has seen or heard from you in the past two months. And your behavior towards the Queen when we left wasn't particularly _helpful_, no matter how entertaining it might have been."

"Right, right." He rubbed his face again with his hand, and he sighed. "So," it pained him _so_ much to have to ask, but Zevran would be the one to know, "what do I **do**? If... If I want to keep the Wardens under my command, I mean."

There was a moment of silence, and Alistair refused to look up. He didn't want to see what he was sure was written all over the elven face studying him. Needless to say, when he felt the bed dip behind him and hands touch his shoulders, he stiffened and looked up, surprised to see the Antivan kneeling just behind him, both hands resting on the tops of his shoulders. Slender fingers began to press into the muscles there, and the Warden almost _moaned_ with pleasure. Somehow, he managed to bite it back, and instead, he tried to just savor the feeling of someone touching him.

"If your _desire_ is to keep the Wardens, I would begin by visiting the Queen and offering a formal apology. Claim whatever you like, it won't really matter. It just matters that the Banns see you in public, speaking and behaving ... normally." That voice was low in his ear, and Alistair shivered at the heat that it sent spiraling through him. "It would also help if you affirm yourself before the court again, swearing off your bloodline. Prove to them that even if the Blight is over, you hold to the promises made in the heat of the moment."

"Ad then?" His own voice, by comparison, was outright shaky and soft, just barely making words audible at all. Zevran didn't seem to notice, only continued what he was doing, his hands working their way down and over his shoulder blades.

"It would not hurt to confirm our allies again. See how many markers we can call in to keep you here, if necessary." Hands were lower still now, in the middle of his back. Alistair was rapidly turning into a boneless heap at the edge of the bed, and he was starting to wonder why he had been so _insistent _on staying away from the elf in the beginning.

"So, back on the road again." It wasn't a question. And he could feel the Antivan shrug behind him. "Not something I look forward to."

"It will be painful," Zevran agreed quietly, and then he stilled. The warrior did too, trusting the instincts honed so sharply by the Crows. Silently, the assassin eased off of the bed and over to the door, where he pressed an ear to it. Several minutes went by, and then he shook his head. "I thought..." He stopped himself, and then offered Alistair a disarming smile. "It was nothing," he said, moving back to the bed. However, he stood in front of the Fereldan, his hands resting on his hips as he studied the other man.

Alistair managed a bland expression as he returned the look. The elf was thinking something, of that he was certain. However, he never knew what exactly was going on behind those dark eyes. It was part of Zevran's charm, he supposed, part of the allure that drew everyone's gaze. He had asked Leliana what it was about the Antivan once, and she'd never really given him a straight answer. Maybe this was why; it was one of those things you had to simply _know _before you understood it.

He couldn't stand the look any longer though, and he found himself burying his hands in those long blond locks. Zevran didn't seem too surprised as the warrior pulled him down, and if his reaction when their lips touched was any indication, Alistair would even go so far as to say that he had been _expecting _it. He pulled the elf closer to him, and when Zevran threw one leg over him and let his weight press down on the Warden's hips, Alistair nearly groaned into the kiss.

He couldn't argue with this; he didn't want to. If he knew anything about the Antivan, it was that Zevran wouldn't take this any further than Alistair allowed him. The assassin was many things, but a forced lover was not one of them. Alistair needed the touch, the intimacy, and Zevran was available to give it. It would be that simple to the elf.

His thoughts were pushed right out of his head though when he felt the Antivan pressing against his hips. He gasped softly, and his hands slid down out of silky hair, over his back and down to stop on slender hips, where his fingers seem to find this perfect _spot_\--

"**ALISTAIR**!"

Alistair groaned as Zevran pulled back from the kiss. "Maker take him," he hissed, and then he swallowed, taking the moment to compose himself. "What **is **it, Teagan?" he called, his gaze locked on an elf who looked for all the world as though he were about to burst with laughter. His eyes glittered dangerously, _daring_ Zevran to so much as giggle.

"Did you **know **they brought the blood mage here?!"

Zevran rolled off of him lazily, a wicked grin on his kiss-bruised lips. "Best to settle your house, my _lord_," he drawled, pulling Alistair to his feet. Alistair shot him the dirtiest look he could manage. **This **was _not _finished, he swore to himself as he carefully adjusted himself. His hand rested on the door, and Zevran pulled himself back up to sit on the desk. Another glare, and the door was wrenched open.

Teagan was on the other side, looming as best he could considering that he was not only about an inch and a half shorter but also a bit smaller framed than Alistair. The Warden gave his very best scowl at his uncle-by-marriage. It didn't seem to be doing much good though. "_Why_ is Jowan here?"

"He wasn't serving a purpose where he was," Alistair said cooly, doing his best to remain composed despite the fact that he could _feel_ Zevran staring at his backside. At a particular aspect of his backside that he was quite sure hadn't been stared at in a long time. He felt heat flooding his face, and he quickly stepped out of the room, shutting the door on the chuckle that drifted out behind him.

"He's a _murderer_\--"

"Technically, an **attempted **murderer," he corrected, frustration mounting. He wanted nothing more than to be in the room behind him, showing Zevran how very _rude_ it was to laugh at the commander of the Grey Wardens, and instead, he was out here, trying to remain calm in front of a shouting Bann. Great practice, that's what this was. He just had to remind himself that it was practice for Denerim. "Julien wanted him for Orlais; I've already claimed him for Ferelden. It would be better to keep him here, where we _know_ what he's capable of, right?"

That seemed to deflect the air from the Bann's sails, and slowly, the self-righteous anger seemed to fade away. What it left behind caused an unexpected pain in the Warden's chest. Teagan looked _old_, standing in front of him, nothing to animate his worn face. He reached up a hand to put over his mouth, hiding the sharp frown of displeasure, then the eventual sigh of defeat. It was a hollow victory, particularly since it wasn't one that could be used in front of the Orlesian Wardens.

He placed a hand on Teagan's shoulder, then drew him closer into a sort of half hug. He sighed faintly before he released him, and then he said softly, "I wouldn't allow Jowan to hurt anyone else. I swear it." He looked past the Bann's slowly nodding head, and his eyes locked with Julien's. A sardonic grin was on the other Warden's face, and Alistair bristled at it. The door opened behind him, and Zevran slipped out, heading back toward the courtyard.

He offered Alistair a little smile, but what really shocked him was how, when Zevran eased past the Orlesian to head out, Julien brushed past him. It was only a moment, a heartbeat of contact between the two, but it was enough. The templar's jaw clenched, and he followed the elf's escape intently. He _was_ **commander **here, no matter how he'd acted the last two months. _Everyone_, it seemed, would do well to remember that.


	8. Zevran: Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah! Another fight scene! I'm getting better. Interesting fact, no matter that my fight scenes almost always start with blades in hand, if the two characters have a lot of sexual tension, they end with someone's hand around someone else's throat. What does that say? Also, a very special thank you to rogueapprentice of Swooping_Is_Bad, the LJ community! She compiled a Zevran fanmix titled, "I Love One Thing, Destroy the Other," and it has been invaluable in writing this chapter.
> 
> This could have been two chapters, I suppose, but I decided after I wrote it that since it was all from Zevran's perspective, there wasn't much reason to try to divide it up. I hope that you enjoy it! As always, please remember to read and review (constructive criticism welcome).

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_The sword clattered across the ground, and Alistair swallowed for just a moment before he ducked his head behind his shield. Daggers were incoming, flashing and glinting in the light from the fire. They crashed against the buckler, denting the griffon and scuffing the paint. Adrenaline was pumping, and when the warrior pressed back, swinging his shield to buy himself a little space, he was rewarded with the slightest gasp that let him know the Antivan was weakening. At this point, it was just a matter of outlasting the other man, withstanding the rain of attacks coming from all sides._

_He would have been fine if the elf had fought _ _ **cleanly** _ _. As it was, Crow training seemed to take over, and within only a moment, a hand grabbed the side of the shield and wrenched it away, leaving him open to those glinting daggers. That hand opened, letting the shield fall, and the dragonbone blade would have sank deep were it not for reflexes trained in endless drills._

_Alistair caught the wrist coming down, twisted it in a single fluid motion, and forced the first dagger to fall. Catching it with the edge of his foot, he kicked it away; it shot across the flat area toward his own sword. For a heartbeat, the two men stayed like that, the templar's hand firmly gripping the wrist of the Crow, their bodies dangerously close together, sweat and heat mingling between them. He could _ _ **see** _ _ the muscles in the elf's throat working, watch him swallow. Then suddenly, he hit the ground, Zevran's hand tight on his throat._

_He was choking in the dust that exploded from under him, and the weight of the Antivan on his chest was almost too much to bear. Narrow lips were only inches from his own, and the pressure against his windpipe tightened as a smile curved them slowly. Words were whispered out, caressing his lips and face, scarcely audible over the thumping of his own heart. _ _ **Your loss** _ _._

**[[ ... Chapter 8 ..... ]]**

Alistair had changed, Zevran realized as they all sat down to eat that evening. There were enough of them now that they had to utilize the actual mess hall, as they had when they first arrived. It was the first time that the almost templar had joined them, sitting to the elf's left, and Luthanuel seemed more than just a little unnerved as he took his regular seat to Zevran's right. Julien sat in the next chair down, and the four recruits sat on the other side of the long table, all picking at their plates. Nerves, he decided as he watched more than one slightly trembling hand lift cutlery.

The table was loaded down with food cooked by the two brothers, which was just as well considering that there were three Wardens eating. They were all bottomless pits, and Zevran knew from experience that they could easily consume just about everything on the table by themselves. He shot a glance over at the Bann, sitting across from him, and his lips quirked in a little grin at the sheer shock registering on Teagan's face. The Wardens' appetites _did _take some getting used to.

There was little to no discussion at the table-- Wardens with food didn't lend themselves to much talk-- and before long, the recruits found excuses to dismiss themselves. Luthanuel took it upon himself to clear the table, leaving Julien, Alistair, Bann Teagan, and the elf alone in the dining hall. The tension in the room was unbearable, and just as Zevran decided to escape the room, a hand caught his wrist, pulling him back down into his chair. He shot a dark look toward the owner of said hand: Julien, reaching across the empty chair between them.

"You'll have to forgive me," the Orlesian said, a wry smile on his face, "I would be more comfortable with you here. After all, I _know_ you." The comment was directed toward Zevran, but the eyes were locked on Alistair; unspoken words rang out even more loudly than what he'd said. The Fereldan Warden didn't show any reaction at all to the implied insult, instead opting to simply shrug.

"We would **all** be more comfortable with Zev here, I think," he replied, his voice far calmer than his body language suggested it should be. Zevran sat up straighter as he realized that both men were _competing_, glaring and sizing each other up with him in the middle like a bone between two mabari. He was no woman to be fought over, no blushing bride for them to try to win favors from. Deliberately, he removed the hand from his wrist and stood anyway.

"I simply wished to stretch my legs," he lied smoothly, looking at both men from under his eyelashes. Oh yes, that was _jealousy_ between them, as though **either **of them had _any _right to him at all. "After all, it has been _such_ a **day**." There was the faintest blush on Alistair's face, and Zevran moved to lean against the wall, instinctively picking a spot that gave him a straight shot to the door if he needed it. He ignored the overly heated looks both Wardens sent his way.

"How long will you be remaining?"

Painfully blunt. Zevran sighed faintly, folding his arms over his chest as he glanced over at Julien. The Orlesian was nice enough, but he didn't take direct confrontation well. The Crow had seen this when Julien and Clovis argued, which they did frequently. It came from the way politics were handled in Orlais, the Crow supposed, watching the number of expressions that fluttered over the sharp face of the other Warden. Finally, it seemed that he settled on indignation, his preferred defensive technique. Dark brows were furrowed, while those blue eyes bore holes through the templar.

"We will be leaving once your numbers grow to a suitable range. The last time we left a Fereldan in charge-"

"Twelve. When we reach twelve Wardens, not including yourself, Alistair." Zevran had already negotiated this through with the Orlesians, and he was _not_ about to allow anyone to open wounds in Alistair that the assassin didn't think he could bandage properly. Duncan's name was a sore spot, especially since Anora had delayed the plans for his memorial. Again.

Both gazes were blistering as they returned to the elf. He sighed. This had gone on long enough; both of them needed to remember that he was his own man now. He was not some bargaining chip for them to win. "Julien will be leaving to relay an update to Orlais within the next two days anyway." He offered a bland smile at the outrage on the Warden's face, and the surprise on Alistair's. "He's required to every other month."

Julien glanced away, and Zevran knew that his blow had struck home. "Clovis will return to the keep whenever he finishes in the Wilds. He still has our men with him, does he not?"

"He did when I left." A child being told that he couldn't play with a favored toy; that was the Orlesian in that moment, looking up at the elf sulkily.

"And why _did _you leave?" Teagan broke in the conversation, his expression curious as he leaned a little forward over the table. He was still sitting across from Alistair, but he turned to face the other Warden as he spoke.

The Orlesian looked at him for a long moment before he answered, "We found recruits in the nearby village where the Darkspawn were attacking. They were good fighters and willing to join our cause, so he sent me back with them to assist in the Joining."

Both men nodded, and Zevran tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling. This would go no where if he allowed it to continue. The Fereldans lacked the necessary diplomatic skills to coax anything at all from the young man; they would have a far easier time dealing with Clovis than Julien. For a moment, he listened to the three of them bicker, and when he heard Luthanuel rejoin the room, he decided that it was time to do something productive.

"Alistair." Purposely, he pitched his voice low, giving the impression that he was reluctant to interrupt them. The templar twisted in his chair to look at him, and Zevran looked up slowly from under his eyelashes. It was a move that he _knew_ worked on the other man; one he had employed frequently to great effect during the Blight. He smiled when Alistair swallowed, and without another word, he got what he wanted: the other man nodded slowly, letting him take over again.

He directed his gaze then to the Orlesian. The other man was small framed and pale, almost delicate looking, with dark hair that was cut to fall just at his cheekbones. He was about an inch shorter than the elf was, and it was something that had clearly rankled him their first meeting. With him seated, it wasn't as much of an issue, thankfully.

Ignoring Teagan's presence in the room, Zevran pushed himself off of the wall and moved back over to his chair, leaning lightly over the back of it. He offered a smile to the Orlesian in the room, saying softly, "Julien, you _know_ we're going to need your help with this." His voice was still low, silky. He could feel Alistair tensing on the other side of him, and he just hoped that the Fereldan Warden would stay calm enough to let him get the work _done_. Jealousy could wait.

There was a moment of silence, and then Julien sighed, looking away. A small triumphant smile crossed elven lips, and he continued with, "I mean, while you're there, you could tell them what's been going on. We have made _significant_ progress, have we not?" He arched an eyebrow, and when Julien nodded, he knew it was time to deliver the final blow. He reached out and lightly settled his fingers on the Warden's shoulder. "We are immensely _grateful_ for your support here. If there's _anything_ we can do for you, you only have to ask."

"I would like someone to come with me to Orlais," Julien said immediately, his eyes flashing as they lifted to lock with Zevran's. The elf frowned just slightly. The offer was supposed to be rhetorical. Politesse demanded that the Orlesian smile and refuse, saying that it was simply enough to be of assistance. However, he wasn't playing by the rules any longer. Ferelden was clearly beginning to rub off on him; no one here played by any rules that the assassin had ever known.

He glanced up at the third Warden in the room, the young man with black eyes and dark brown hair that fell in a braid down his back. He was attractive enough to appeal to the Orlesians. "Luthanuel--"

"No. Someone in... _command_." The smile that twisted those lips was overly smug, and Zevran wished he had something at his disposal to wipe it away. Regrettably, he _knew_ where this was headed. He swallowed.

"**I** will accompany you."

The Orlesian glanced past the elf to look at Alistair, who had picked up the only remaining glassware on the table: his goblet. He swished the contents around in it slowly, casually. He lifted his gaze to meet theirs, a faint smile on his face. "I've always wanted to see Orlais," he said before he turned the goblet up and drained its contents. "Zevran, why don't you stay and arrange for that meeting with the Queen?"

"It would be my _pleasure_," the assassin responded, still smiling at Julien for a moment. Then he leaned off of the back of the chair, and he stretched. Slowly. "I am so tired now; if you would excuse me, gentlemen..." He waved a little over his head and strolled on out, ignoring any complaints or attempts to catch his attention. He didn't want to be there any longer, and no amount of wheedling would stop him from leaving when he decided he wanted to. Only one person had ever managed to prevent that, and she was dead.

He headed back to his room, reaching out with one hand to let his fingertips drag over the stones in the walls. He liked the feel of the cold rock worn smooth from the many years of service, and when he finally got to his door, he slipped inside the room, hesitating before he decided to not lock the door. He wanted to see if his instincts would prove right. He hoisted himself up to sit on the edge of his desk, his feet lightly touching the floor still.

Just as he was beginning to decide he had perhaps read the intent on the Warden's face wrong, there was a slight sound, the faintest of knocks, and then the door opened and Alistair eased in slowly. Dark eyes met hazel, and Alistair twisted the lock in place. The almost templar crossed the room, reaching to wrap his arms around the elf the moment that he could comfortably do so.

The Antivan angled his head back and was rewarded with a kiss against his lips, Alistair's head tilting just enough to deepen it. The taste was now familiar; he savored it as a soft moan from the other man vibrated over his tongue and down his throat. By the time that they drew back, both of them were breathless, and Alistair had a hand on his face, tracing over every feature that he could touch. It was more than just a little strange, but he looked so at peace that Zevran didn't have the heart to make him move right away. Instead, he simply used the moment to study his lover, to really _look_ at the blond for once.

"Don't do that."

"Don't... what? Look at you? **Truly**?" Rapidly, he reviewed the night, trying to decide what 'that' Alistair was referring to. No matter what came out of his mouth, Zevran _knew_ that the Fereldan was not talking about his current actions. One of his feet lightly slid up the back of the Warden's leg.

"Try to deflect the attention from me. Don't... You don't have to _protect _me." The hand on his face was pushing back, wrapping itself into long blond hair. Elven eyes fell closed at the first light tug. Alistair must have taken it as encouragement, because then those fingers started _scritching_ just slightly against his scalp, and Zevran realized that he was rapidly becoming a puddle on top of the desk.

He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking up at the other blond as he slowly eased down off of the desk. The movement forced the templar to step back, and Zevran used it as an excuse to gently dislodge that hand from his hair. He couldn't think when Alistair did that; it was dangerous, especially with the conversation that was swirling between them. "I don't protect you from everything," he said softly, looking up at his lover. Technically, it was the truth.

He knew that Alistair didn't buy it, and instead of trying to continue the argument, he decided it would be better to do what he did best: _deflect_. He reached out, catching the Warden's belt buckle in his hand, pulling just enough on it to get him to stand a hair closer. There was something distinctly sexy about unbuckling a belt. If it was your own, it was the _promise_, the _intent_ that clung to the decisive movements. If it was someone else's... well, that was a manner of seduction all on its own.

The sharp tug on the leather, the vulnerability of letting someone else do it for you... Then there was the proximity that it caused, drawing you closer, letting the backs of fingers brush against soft skin--

Alistair swallowed thickly, and Zevran leaned up to lick his throat. He could feel the other man's pulse under his tongue, and he pulled the belt free of the pants, tossing it carelessly to the side. His fingertips moved to hook into the sides of those trousers, and he pulled them down as he slowly slid to his knees in front of the other man. He smiled as Alistair hurriedly tugged off his tunic, letting it fall where ever it would on the floor.

He could feel the _heat_ radiating off of the Warden, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled the musk and sweat that came with undressing another man. Then he turned his head and parted his lips, taking the source of that heat into his mouth. Alistair moaned faintly, dragging in ragged breaths as the elf slowly took more of him in, his tongue pressing firmly against the bottom of the length. Just as he reached the base, he slid back, until he only held the tip in his mouth.

The elf glanced up, gauging his lover's reaction as he swirled his tongue over the soft skin. At Alistair's gasp, he sank back down, swallowing as he did. Slowly, he built into a rhythm, his eyes falling closed as he moved. His hands held Alistair's hips still; no easy feat since there was nothing to hold them back against, and the Warden seemed determined that they _move_, at least a little. He made a soft noise as he felt a trembling start in the other man's legs, and, with one last nip, he pulled away. One hand moved to wipe the back of his mouth, and then he was laughing softly as Alistair struggled to get his tunic off.

The fabric ripped, and he shivered just a little as the Warden continued the tear to let the shirt drop away, joining the other tunic on the floor. He caught the other man before those fingers found his belt, and he offered a grin. "You mustn't tear _everything_ I own," the elf said quietly, peeling his belt and pants off. The instant that the clothes were off of him, the former prince had him pressed back and down against the bed, lips touching his collarbone as weight was distributed over him.

He moaned as Alistair's leg wedged itself between his legs, and he opened his eyes to look up at the other man, curious as to his reaction. Clearly, there was nervousness, which was understandable enough. But there was something else as the Fereldan looked over him; something that Zevran recognized _quite _well: **hunger**. He felt something shifting inside him as he saw that _look_, saw that need so clearly written in that face.

"I..." Alistair swallowed, and Zevran watched muscles in his throat work, fascinated how _little_ it actually took to get the Warden riled up to this point. "I wanted--"

A finger against the lips stopped the words, and the assassin shook his head a little before he scooted over enough to pull the Warden down to the bed. He didn't want anything said, anything that could ruin this, that could be taken the wrong way. He just wanted to keep going; he _liked_ it the way they were. Somehow, he must have communicated the desire more clearly than he thought. That or Alistair just lost his nerve because nothing else was said, and Zevran managed to get himself situated on those hips.

Shyly, Alistair's hands reached for him, one settling on his hip and the other lightly dragging a single finger down his length. The elf shifted just a little, his eyes closing part of the way as he studied the warrior laying so calmly beneath him. When that calloused hand palmed him though, he gasped, the breath jerking into his lungs as he tried _not_ to let his hips move too much. It clearly gave the Fereldan some confidence though, because then that hand wrapped all the way around him and _stroked_. His hips actually _lifted _into that motion.

Then he decided he wasn't about to try to stand it any longer, and he was reaching over for the nightstand. Alistair watched him curiously, and when his own hand returned with the vial, those hazel eyes lit up. Already, the Warden considered himself somewhat knowledgeable, something that amused Zevran to no end. The things that he still had to learn...

This time, the elf prepared himself, reaching carefully with an oiled finger to begin stretching. Alistair supported his weight carefully, and he pulled Zevran down for a kiss. Moaning into the other man's mouth, the Antivan withdrew his finger, smoothed oil over his partner's length, and then tossed the vial lightly away, letting it land on the furthest edge of the bed. He pulled back from the kiss slowly, reached back to position them both, and then, carefully, eased down and back. His eyes closed as the Warden entered him, and by the time that he was fully sheathed, they _both_ were moaning.

Alistair's hand on his hip was trembling, the fingertips beginning to dig in, and Zevran was trying to _breathe_ as he forced his eyes open to look at his lover. The Warden was flushed, returning the gaze heatedly, clearly aching to _move_ but unable to make himself do so. It made the Antivan smile faintly, through his slight gasps for breath, and then he leaned forward a little and let himself begin to shift over the other man. Moans greeted the motions, making every shift and squeeze a note in a building symphony. Sweat was beginning to bead up from the heat between them, and then the Warden's hand returned to touch him.

The assassin's breathing hitched, and he watched Alistair's face as they moved, each thrust pushing his length into that hand. The former prince seemed almost fascinated, watching the elf with a shocking intensity. Zevran's hips started to move faster, wanting to see that expression over and over as he tightened and the heat and the friction rapidly built to the point of 'so close' and flew past the moment of 'can't stop.' Heat spilled out of him, over the other man's stomach, and Alistair's own hips snapped up, burying himself within the elf as far as he could go.

For a moment, neither of them moved, and then, slowly, Zevran rolled off of him. When he could feel fluid leaking and the heat beginning to turn sticky on him, the assassin let his arm fall down toward the bottom of the bed, where a wad of cloth lay on the floor. He cleaned himself up before offering it to Alistair, who did the same. Then it was dropped over the other edge of the bed; the vial was returned to its drawer; and Alistair pulled Zevran close. They were laying on top of the blankets, but neither of them really _cared _at that point. With the Warden's arm resting on his stomach, Zevran closed his eyes and drifted.


	9. Teagan: The Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is a short chapter, but the next one should be longer. It was difficult to decide which POV I wanted to go with for this one. In chapter six, I brought in Teagan's, so after much consideration, I decided it would be best to do another chapter from the same POV, so that six didn't stick out like a sore thumb. Once again, as a chapter with Teagan in it, there is a reference in here specifically for vehlr, of Swooping_Is_Bad, the livejournal community. Fellow Swoopers should be able to locate the joke.
> 
> As always, please remember to _read _and **review **(constructive criticism welcome).

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_He wasn't sure when they had become friends. It had happened slowly, of _ _ **that** _ _ he was certain, but one day when they were walking, it had really hit him. Any of them would die for their cause, of course, but Alistair went out of his way to defend them all. He took it upon his own shoulders to ensure that every battle, _ _ **he** _ _ was the one who bore the worst of the attacks. Now, blood was spilling out over the rocky terrain of the Deep Roads, and Zevran wasn't certain he could help._

_He had watched the templar go down, deflecting an attack meant for the Antivan, and then the ground had started shaking. By the time the dust settled, he and the warrior were on one side of a mound of rocks that almost touched the ceiling. Between them and their mages. Wynne. He dropped to his knees, slender fingers unbuckling armor as he tried to find the wound pouring blood so thickly. Alistair was pale, unresponsive, and the elf spoke softly to him, trying to get a reaction. Get something. Anything._

_He applied a poultice gently to the angry tear when he found it, and then drew the other man closer. His fingers were shaking, he realized as he lightly touched his fingertips to the side of Alistair's face, feeling the slight stubble, the texture of the skin. He drew a breath, and then he was working on the wound, fishing a scrap of cloth to use to staunch the blood flow. He bit his bottom lip as he worked, applying pressure and glancing behind himself frequently, hoping to hear the sound of the others digging through the rock._

_Hazel eyes opened slowly, and, gasping for breath, Alistair reached for him blindly. _ _ **Was he hurt?** _ _ What sort of question was that, when the one asking it was laying on his back in mud made with his own blood? But the prince wouldn't be settled until he knew for sure that the elf was really in one piece, so Zevran answered that yes, he was fine. His hands moved to hold the other man's shoulders, keeping him still. Noble men would be the death of him._

**[[ ... Chapter 9 ..... ]]**

Three weeks had passed since Alistair and Julien had left, and the keep had been a nonstop bustle of activity since. Banns had come and gone, letters had been exchanged between the Queen and Zevran, and a meeting had been arranged. The four recruits had apparently been tested-- Teagan had woken up one morning to the sound of cheering from the other Wardens-- and all four had survived. This was clearly an impressive feat, as all of the other Wardens had clapped them on the back and congratulated them one by one. It also brought their numbers up to ten. Two more, and the Orlesians would leave the Fereldans to their own devices.

Teagan still didn't know how he felt about the blood mage who stood so quietly next to the Antivan in charge. Jowan had a fleeting smile, one that melted away each time he laid eyes on the Bann. Honestly, Teagan couldn't fault him for it; he still hated the mage, but he had come to terms with the simple fact that the other Wardens accepted him. He found himself watching the other man less and less intently, slowly growing accustomed to his presence. Perhaps it was familiarity, or perhaps it was simply the fact that the assassin seemed determined to shove Jowan's company down the Bann's throat.

The elf wasn't that bad otherwise. Teagan had grudgingly come to admit that to himself after watching and helping as best he could with the preparations for meeting with Anora and the Bannorn. Zevran was politically minded, able to quickly grasp complex relationships and feuds that even Teagan had difficulties remembering. Then again, considering that he had only ever gone to the Denerim court in order to go hunting with Cailan, perhaps he wasn't the best Bann to be tutoring the Grey Wardens in Ferelden politics.

However, he was the best for making the castle into a properly functioning keep. His letter, sent off the day after his arrival, had paid off about a week prior: a caravan of servants had arrived and immediately set upon Soldier's Peak with a vengeance, preparing real meals, cleaning rooms that still hadn't been touched, and dragging out little treasures from all sorts of forgotten nooks and crannies. Already, four swords and five journals had been discovered and placed in the armory and the library, respectively. Zevran seemed grateful for the help, since it freed up much of his day to handle the Bannorn. He would need almost all of that newfound time, considering it was proving much more difficult than originally anticipated to gather all of the influential in Denerim together.

No matter how full the Antivan's hands were, Teagan was enjoying himself. He didn't care for the politics though; he was much more at home, stripped of his shirt, in the forge with Levi's brother and the female Warden-- Edlyn, her name was--, learning to shape small bars of metal into useful things like nails and horseshoes. Granted, it wasn't exactly a skill he figured he'd use very often, but he enjoyed doing it all the same. The shaping of the hot metal, the weight of the hammer in his hand... Perhaps he could continue this sort of work, even back home. As a hobby.

Were it not for his duties, he would have fled Rainesfere to join the Wardens himself. As it was, he knew that he was already pushing his absence from the province. He would have to return home before much longer. Not right away, but soon.

After the trip to Denerim, he had decided, and that was when he had discovered that Zevran was leaving for the city, taking Jowan and Luthanuel with him. Teagan had immediately invited himself, not liking the idea of a blood mage in the city with the Queen, no matter the unlikely chance that Jowan would even get to see Anora. The Bann wanted to be there, just to ease his own mind.

And so, they were walking through the marketplace. Rooms had been secured in the Gnawed Noble, an inn that Zevran was apparently familiar with, and Luthanuel had asked to see the markets. He wasn't originally from Denerim, and the bustle of the city was new to him. He'd only been there for a few days when selected to join the Wardens after the Blight.

Now, he and Jowan were both exclaiming and laughing while they soaked up the enthusiasm from the crowd. It was a celebration of some kind-- something to do with the Alienage-- and everyone was cheering. The marketplace was far more packed than it normally would have been, but it also meant that there were dozens of new stalls and stores opening.

Teagan didn't understand the fascination. It was a lot of noise, a lot of jarring people who were all in a hurry to go ... somewhere. He sighed, glancing over as the elf studied trinkets in several of the vendors' stalls. Glass seemed to hold particular fascination, and when he saw the Antivan actually pull out coin, the Bann found himself looming over the other man's shoulder, curious as to what had caught his attention so.

A tiny glass figurine. A griffon perhaps. Or a mabari. It was difficult to tell, and the assassin wasn't exactly displaying his purchase. Instead, he swept it into a pocket and offered the Bann a vacant smile, his dark eyes scanning the crowd around them. Teagan scowled, frustrated by the lack of _anything_ going on, and turned to look at Jowan, intending to demand that they head back. The expression on Jowan's face stopped him short, however, and as he turned back, he realized that his own face must have mirrored the mage's exactly.

Zevran was gone.

Deliberately, Teagan spun on his heel, looking around at the crowd. It was packed tight, difficult to see the people directly next to you, let alone see past anyone. There was no following tracks, no matter how good he was due to the sheer number of feet trampling the dirt, and he felt a tightness in his chest. Perhaps the elf had simply wandered off?

But Luthanuel was kneeling where Zevran had been standing, and he held something in one of his hands. Teagan dropped to one knee, taking it very slowly from the Warden. It was a very small pouch, one that was meant to be strapped to a body part-- such as a forearm or a calf. It was exactly the width of his fist, but it was flat. He ripped it open, pulling out a scrap of paper. There was only one line of words on it:

_The Antivan Crows send their regards._

He felt his stomach drop; his hands grew cold. He glanced up at the Wardens with him, and, at their expectant expressions, his mouth went dry. Alistair was due back to the keep in three days, and unless Zevran turned up before then, he was going to **kill **them all for losing his second in command.


	10. Alistair: Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, and gritty reality begins to sink in. Duty calls, maturity must be reached, roles must be played. Longer than the last chapter, but chapter 8 is still the longest by far. As always, please remember to read and review (constructive criticism welcome).

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_It was one of those things that they never spoke of. She didn't really want to know, and Zevran certainly wasn't about to tell her. Alistair, on the other hand... he _ _ **had ** _ _wanted to know. It had been the templar to corner him, to catch him away from the group. His hand had grabbed the elf's arm, squeezed to keep him from slipping away. His hazel eyes had been the ones piercing into him when the question came, and had it been anyone else, Zevran would have been flippant, laughing and shrugging it all off._

_But it was _ _ **Alistair ** _ _who asked him, so seriously, what would happen if the Crows caught up to him, and he had looked so _ _ **concerned** _ _, that Zevran couldn't take it. He had let the warrior hold on to him, let him feel like he was in control of the situation, and he had told him. He had told him in gruesome detail, wanting to give the other man _ _ **some ** _ _idea of the consequences that leaving the Wardens' company would have for the elf._

_He had detailed the various manners of death he could expect, anything from being strangled to being laid open in combat. And then he had explained that he was lucky at least: he wasn't worth being kidnapped. _ _ **Those ** _ _victims had it the worst. They had some sort of information that the Crows found valuable, and there were any number of tortures that would have been applied to extract that information. Very few survived, and those that did were killed once the information had been obtained._

_He spared nothing, not caring that Alistair's grip had slackened. His dark eyes had flashed, and he had advanced on the larger man, turning what should have been an interrogation into an attack. By the time he had finished, the prince was swallowing, staring at him with a newfound respect that Zevran didn't think he deserved. No matter what death awaited him, he had tasted freedom, and he had discovered that he was quite fond of it. He would suffer whatever he had to in order to avoid going back to a life that wasn't a life at all._

**[[ ... Chapter 10 ..... ]]**

Alistair had been quite put out upon his return to the keep. After twenty eight days on the road (or on the boat, as the case was), he had been greatly looking forward to collapsing in Zevran's room and begging the elf for one of his most infamous massages. He was sick of being diplomatic, of defending his Wardens and his command from the veiled accusations that he was unfit. It had been an eye-opener, when Julien had confronted him on the boat. His 'pet elf' had been running the entire order since the end of the Blight, and Alistair honestly hadn't realized. At first, it had been unreal, a haze of nothing that seemed to cling to his every movement. Then, as the days turned into weeks, it had become something that seemed to work by itself.

He had never thought of Zevran as a commander, although he realized now that he should have, given how the recruits responded to him. Luthanuel, specifically, had been his biggest clue-- one that had passed right over his head at _that_ dinner. He had been the first of the new Wardens to survive the Joining, which gave him a certain status among the others. He had been clearly shocked to see Alistair at the table with the others, which wasn't that surprising, considering the simple fact that the only time any of them had seen him was at a Joining.

He had attended every single one of those (the batch of twenty five men had been broken up into groups of five), watched each of the nineteen who died as they swallowed their fatal dose of blood. Each time, he had seen _her_, watched _her_ so calmly raise the goblet to her lips, closing her eyes for just a heartbeat before she tilted it up. It had been hell.

Now, he was standing in the courtyard, watching the new servants and the Fereldan Wardens as they went about their business. There was always something to be done, some armor needing polishing, some wall needing repair. Teagan had sent for the servants, which Zevran was surely grateful for. He had been complaining about having to do everything in a keep this size. A smile quirked the corner of Alistair's mouth.

"What is it?" The voice startled him, and he turned to meet it. Clovis. The other Orlesian Warden. As far as they went, Alistair preferred Clovis to Julien. Julien was all flighty laughter and flirts, while Clovis was more serious. He had a no-nonsense air around him, with his salt and peppered hair kept in a simple braid, his beard neatly trimmed. Alistair shrugged a little.

"Just thinking," he said quietly, looking back at the keep. Griffon banners were flying from a few of the windows, twisting and arching in the wind like some sort of dancer. It really was quite beautiful. "Four months ago, I had no idea that _this _is where I would be."

"Where did you think you would go after the Blight?" Clovis wasn't smiling, but he wasn't walking away, which meant that he was at the very least interested.

"Oh, I have no idea where I thought I would go. I didn't really think on it much. We were a bit preoccupied with everything." He offered the Orlesian a wry smile and was rewarded with a degree of warmth in the other man's gaze. "It was really just focusing on the Darkspawn at hand."

"I see." Clovis reached out then, letting one of his hands lightly touch Alistair's shoulder. Both men were a little surprised by the contact, but the Templar recovered first, reaching up and grasping the other Warden's forearm, turning it into a brotherly handshake of sorts. When they both dropped their hands, the Orlesian reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small piece of paper. "Zevran left this for you."

"He's not here?" Alistair's brows furrowed as he reached for the paper, opening it and reading it quickly. "Denerim? He couldn't wait a few more days?" He sighed and glanced up at the sky. It was still early enough to make good progress if he left right away.

"The Bannorn was quite insistent that he come right away to finish setting up the meeting for you." Clovis shrugged slightly, his displeasure in the situation evident in his frown. He would be displeased, Alistair realized, he liked Zevran enough to let him stay in command for Alistair. It was Clovis who had written the almost _glowing _recommendation that Julien had been forced to read aloud before the other Wardens in Val Royeaux. It had been _that _recommendation that allowed him to keep his post, as Clovis was well known for being a particularly harsh judge of character.

Why he thought Alistair should remain commander was well beyond the blond's comprehension. Maybe he saw whatever _she_ had seen in him. Not that it really mattered now; his command was safe from the Wardens. They simply had to convince Ferelden that it was for the best as well.

"When are you leaving?"

Alistair raised an eyebrow, glancing at Clovis curiously. "Well, he asks that I get there as soon as I can, which would mean, I suppose, that I'm leaving now." And he'd probably get chewed out by Zevran the instant the Antivan realized that he hadn't even made it all the way into the keep before getting back on that horse and heading to Denerim. He'd be scolded for being too _serious_. He smiled at the thought.

The Orlesian was already nodding, walking him to the stables. "I will accompany you, since Julien is here to watch the keep." His tone was booking no arguments, and Alistair tilted his head a little as he looked at the other Warden. He wanted to ask why-- he really did-- but he kept his tongue until a pack was shoved into his hands.

"You already packed? What's wrong?" But Clovis didn't answer until they were well away from the keep, on the road toward Denerim.

"There is _something_ wrong. I don't know what, precisely. Not yet."

The rest of the ride was more or less silent, only broken long enough for the Orlesian to fill him in on the latest Joining: all four had survived. It was almost unheard of; it was one of the things that Clovis was infamous for. He could _look_ at someone and just **know** if they would survive the Joining. Alistair wondered if that was a skill that someone could teach, but then again, most likely not. After all, all of the Orlesian Wardens would be able to do it if it were.

By the time they reached Denerim, Alistair was exhausted. He had been on a boat for eight days, followed by a five day ride to the keep, and then a four day ride to the city. Normally, it would have been longer to get all the way to Denerim, but neither he nor Clovis were much on stopping. Not with the thought looming over their heads that something could be seriously wrong.

The Gnawed Noble was the one of only two inns that Alistair was really familiar with, and that was where he went, figuring that Zevran would take pity on him and not go to the Pearl for official Warden business. He was directed to a set of rooms, and when he found Teagan and Jowan inside, he knew immediately that something **had** happened.

Teagan paled upon seeing him, and he couldn't stop the frown that spread over his face. "Not happy to see me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at his practically-uncle.

"I wish it were under better circumstances." The Bann stood slowly, sighing. "You have an audience with the Queen and the Bannorn in two days. Zevran said you'd be on you way soon enough to make it."

"That's what we came here for. The sooner it is done, the better." The former prince gave the older man a few minutes to continue, but when they ticked by with just glances between Teagan and Jowan, Alistair lost his patience. "Where's Zevran? I'll need to talk to him about seeing the Bannorn." The Antivan would be more than happy to clarify the situation, to explain whatever it was that had these two in such a mess. Sighing, Teagan drew out another scrap of paper. Alistair was beginning to hate the little squares of parchment, so neatly folded.

"Alistair," the older man began, rubbing the paper between his fingers, "there's been... Something's happened."

Unable to stand it, the templar leaned over and plucked the paper from those rubbing fingers. "What? What's happened?" He unfolded it and felt this strange sinking sensation in his stomach. The words were a bad joke, that's all. This wasn't _really_ happening. "Very funny," he said, glaring up at his uncle. "Did he put you up to this?"

"No. Alistair, Zevran is gone."

It was all there in the Bann's voice: fear, horror, and a bone-deep weariness that only came from days on edge. Alistair had kept that note in his own voice the last two months before the Blight had ended. He _knew_ it. It couldn't be faked. He passed the paper to Clovis, who wore an expression matching the templar's. He ignored how his fingers were trembling.

_The Antivan Crows send their regards._

It all came back in a flood; Zevran's voice was detailing the various manners of death he could expect if a Crow ever caught up to him. He had _laughed_ about it with the assassin, encouraged by the elf's casual disregard for his own safety. _I am lucky enough, as it goes. I am not worthy of being kidnapped_. The smile that had accompanied those words had been easy, but the eyes had cut deep, letting Alistair know that it was a serious matter that the spoke of.

_Why not?_

Because kidnap targets had information, and the Crows had means of extracting that information no matter how unwilling the victim was to talk. Alistair felt a little shudder race down his spine at the thought of some of the methods that Zevran _had_ detailed for him once. The thought of anyone-- Of **Zevran** being put through that...

He looked at Teagan, centering himself. "How long ago did they get him?"

"Seven days ago."

"And there's been... nothing?" The cold was beginning to steal throughout him, making his stomach churn violently. Seven _days_? And they hadn't been able to locate him yet? "Have you contacted Anora?"

There was a hesitation, and Jowan nodded slowly. Teagan clearly didn't want to be the one to deliver this news. The blood mage drew himself up to his full height, preparing for an onslaught that Alistair was sure he'd be willing to give based on their reactions. "She is supportive of our efforts to locate him, but... There are whispers that he-- They're saying that he willingly returned to the Crows."

Rage blinded Alistair for a moment, and his hand was in a fist before he realized it. Had Clovis not caught him, he wasn't sure what would have happened. The image of Jowan on the floor bleeding came to mind, and while he would have gotten some satisfaction from it, he knew that it would have been unjust. Jowan had no quarrel with Zevran, and indeed, the Antivan must have liked the mage at least a little. He had been chosen to come to Denerim.

"That's a lie," Alistair hissed, jerking his arm from the Orlesian's grip. "They'll kill him when they're through with him."

"If they haven't already." The voice that agreed with him was tired, almost broken as Teagan rubbed a hand over his face. "It's been seven days, and ... nothing, Alistair. _Nothing_. And we've been looking--"

The door behind them opened, and Luthanuel entered the room. His shock upon seeing Alistair was evident, and he stiffly bowed just a little to the former prince. Alistair waved it away. He never had liked that.

"Any news?" Teagan asked, although they all knew the answer from Luthanuel's empty hands. Had he known where Zevran was, he would have either sent a runner back for them or fetched the elf himself. It wasn't like he wasn't a capable fighter. Only the best became Wardens.

Luthanuel shook his head and sighed. "Nothing. No one has seen him; there's been nothing suspicious that might link to him. Not even in the Alienage. More people did join our cause though; if he's in Denerim or the surrounding areas, he will be found." The young Warden reached up to shove a hand through his bangs. "Haven't heard anything yet from the runners we sent out either."

His hands were shaking again, this time with a potent mixture of anger and fear. The idea that someone had taken Zevran in broad daylight, in the middle of a _crowd_... That they had even managed to sneak up on the elf was impressive. The Antivan was always ridiculously aware of his surroundings in crowds. He saw and heard things that no one else in their group could have hoped to.

"We need a plan," Alistair said, looking back at Clovis. "Someone will have to meet with the Bannorn while the rest of us look for Zevran. He can't be left at the mercy of the Crows."

"Agreed. Alistair, go on and do your searching. I will handle your Bannorn."

But no, that didn't sit right. As angry as Alistair was, he knew that this would only hurt his cause more. He blew out a deep breath, not liking the bitter taste in his throat. "No," he corrected the other Warden regretfully. "I _have_ to be the one there. It's my leadership that they are questioning; I should be the one to defend myself." He lifted his gaze to the small group of men in the room. Jowan, Luthanuel, Teagan, and Clovis. "Teagan will come with me in two days before the Bannorn; Clovis, you will take Jowan and Luthanuel with you that day. Until then, we will all continue the search."

It was the right thing to do. His duty demanded that he take the few hours out of the search to protect the keep, to prevent someone being sent in from Weisshaupt Fortress to secure the Fereldan Wardens. He needed to do this. No matter how much he disliked it, he had to trust that Clovis could maintain the search for a single day.

Clovis studied him for a long moment, then he folded both arms over his chest and bowed just a little, the most common salute given in Ferelden. It was touching, coming from an Orlesian. "Of course, Commander," he said softly, meeting Alistair's gaze. The blond felt a shiver down his back as he watched both Jowan and Luthanuel follow the Orlesian's example. He couldn't help but wonder if Duncan had felt as he did, that this was too much; he didn't deserve the respect and honor that they were granting him. Then he thought of Zevran, and he swallowed thickly. He couldn't _not_ fill in this role. The elf had worked too hard to keep it from slipping away from him, to keep the keep _his_, and not some other Warden's.

They would find him. It was only a matter of time.


	11. Zevran: Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very difficult chapter to write, and I hope that it serves its purpose well within the story. As always, if you enjoy reading this story, please remember to review (constructive criticism welcome). Reviews really do cause a writer (me, at least) to update more often! Getting those reviews in my e-mail make me think about the fic more, which in turn leads to me writing more often on it.
> 
> **WARNING**: This chapter contains graphic description of **physical and emotional TORTURE**. I am not joking about or exaggerating the situation found in this chapter. If you do not wish to read this, but would like to know what happens, please scroll all the way to the **bottom of the chapter**. A summary has been provided there.

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_The elf had seemed ... different after their confrontation. No one else seemed to notice, but Alistair did. Perhaps because he was the one who had brought it up, perhaps because he _ _ **knew** _ _ what was weighing in so heavily on the assassin's mind. At the very least, he had a fair idea. Instead, he only watched, and he noticed too late that his grip on their favored mage had slackened._

_Everything was falling apart; the spiral that started in Redcliffe was refusing to be denied. Promises whispered in black tents on the road didn't hold up so well under the daylight, and duty _ _ **could** _ _ not be shoved aside. He knew that Zevran disapproved of his choice, but it was as much to protect him as it was to defend her. Something had to give, and Alistair was damned if it was going to be either of them. They had already sacrificed too much._

_It was the least he could do._

**[[ ... Chapter 11 ..... ]]**

There was a velvet blackness pressing against his eyes; it must be night. During the day, the darkness was not so absolute. There was the very faintest of light when the sun was out. Not enough to illuminate his cell, but enough to let him mark the days. He had lost count now, but the fact that he was still capable of _knowing_ meant that he wasn't lost yet. Why he held on was drifting away from him, he couldn't keep hold of the reason, but he did know that there was _something_ that he had to do. Someone he was supposed to help.

Not that he was in shape to help anyone at this point. His knees were aching. He sighed and gently started rubbing at them, attempting to stave off the pain for a few minutes at a time. He was folded up in a little cage, one that even sitting, his knees pressed against his chest, head ducked down, he barely fit in. He had no idea where his clothes had gone, they had been gone when he'd woken up. For that matter, he wasn't even certain how he'd been brought here.

He remembered the glass merchant, the little trinket he'd picked up and rolled in his fingers. It was a code, one that he hadn't expected to see in Denerim. In Antiva, certainly, but Ferelden? He had smiled at the old man, who had offered him a tiny glass crow. His fingers had ached to take it, to feel the details on the feathers, to roll it in his hand for a heartbeat before placing it deliberately on the left edge of the table, three-quarters of the length down away from the man. But he had politely declined, despite his longing for it. He was _technically _a Crow, but he had turned his back on them the moment he'd taken the contract for the Wardens.

Instead, he'd picked up the griffon, withdrew a coin and placed it on the table. His allegiance was with the Wardens, not the Crows. His previous mark had ensured that, binding him to her as securely as any purchase contract. She bought his loyalty with friendship, not coin. The merchant had inclined his head slowly, seeing the importance of the action. Then Teagan had come up, Zevran had tucked the glass griffon into his pocket, and--

Nothing.

Try as he might, no matter how many details he could remember, he could _not_ remember how he'd been caught. They were good, whoever they were. And they were breaking him in well enough: days with no light, minimal food and water, forcing him to stay in a tiny cage, sitting in his own filth. He felt like he was going mad, and they hadn't even begun on the true torture. They clearly had him somewhere that he couldn't be heard-- they hadn't bothered with a gag-- and _that_ scared him more than anything else. It reminded him too much of Antiva, of the slums where _he'd_ done this himself, of where he'd been tortured before, to prove he could handle the pain.

Of course, that had only been physical torture. Racking and cutting and the like. This, this was psychological torture at its finest. He trembled a little and resumed rubbing at his knees. By the time they came for him, stretching him out over a rack would be more painful than leaving him in the cage. He was dreading it, knowing that he was going to scream the minute that they unfolded him.

The light was impossibly bright as it hit him in the face, and he reached one of his hands up to block it as the door opened, then closed. Someone was standing just inside his room, staring at him. They held a lantern, and he squinted through the light at them. He need to get a read on them, try to figure out _what_ they actually wanted from him, but he couldn't see much since his eyes were having trouble focusing. It was the days in the dark.

His head was hurting by the time they came close enough for him to make anything out about them. It was a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and she was studying him intently. A noise sounded from the other side of the door, and they both started. It was the first sound he had heard since his arrival, other than when they came in and brought the food and waterskin. It was always a beast of a man who did that, however, not this young girl who looked like a strong wind would blow her over. Her face was particularly mousey, with sharp features and limp locks of brown hair and a smattering of freckles over her pointed noise.

He swallowed slightly, not saying anything as she turned back to look at him again. This time, she reached through the bars of his cage to push his hair back from his face. Everything about him was filthy, grime seemed to completely cover him, and he found himself wishing that he wasn't going to die this way. It seemed terribly degrading, dying hunched over in a cage, his own waste smeared on him, feeling as though his kneecaps were about to pop off. Her finger trailed down the side of his face, following the tattoo, and then tilted his head as far as the cage would allow. He resisted the urge to snap his teeth at her, but it was difficult. Nothing in his Crow training had ever made him feel this base, this inferior.

"Well, I suppose even _Wardens _are mortal," she spoke softly, but her Antivan accented voice seemed over-loud in the room. Perhaps simply because he wasn't used to the sound of anything other than his own breathing.

"You think I am a Warden?" His own voice was cracking, probably from the lack of adequate water supply. He only got the little waterskin every so often, just enough to keep him alive and not delirious. They wanted his mind clear, but broken in when they started questioning him. If they thought he was a Warden, it could explain a lot. Regrettably, it confirmed his belief that he wasn't going to be getting out of this. Not alive. "That's _quite_ rich."

One of her dark eyebrows lifted, and she withdrew her hand. She crouched beside the cage, letting the lantern sit on the floor. It was tiled, explained why it was so cool in the room. "You deny it?" Her head tilted as she studied him, and when her hair fell away from her face, he saw it: two lines trailing down the side of her face, mirroring his.

"I am no Warden," he said cooly, looking straight ahead again. She would discover that soon enough, and it would seal his fate. All he could hope for was that she would kill him quickly. It was the least of the favors that one Crow could give another, and at the same time, it was the most important. Even disgraced Crows were given a swift death once they outlived their usefulness.

"My intelligence says otherwise, Zevran. They say," she trailed one finger down his thigh. It was a calculated move, one designed to remind the prisoner of their state of undress. "They say that _you_ command the Fereldan Wardens."

The faintest smile quirked his lips. "They are mistaken, I'm afraid."

"Really? Then why do they so desperately seek you?" He couldn't stop his eyes from flicking over toward her. She had a smile on her lips, and she moved to sit on the floor. She drew her knees up to her chest, mimicking his position but facing him. "Didn't you think they would want their leader back?"

He studied her for a full minute before he looked away again. She was lying. She had to be. None of the Wardens would be so _foolish_ as to attract Crow attention. None of them would demand to search for him. Perhaps Luthanuel would, but Teagan would set him straight. They couldn't afford to be searching out a former assassin who wasn't even Joined.

"They do." Her smile widened into a grin, and she tilted her head down a little to peer up at him. "Why, it's even said that Maric's _bastard_ is in the streets, calling your name. Can you believe that? You _must_ be a great lay if you have _him_ all in knots over your disappearance. My friend here is eager to test that theory. Do you think I should let him?" She tapped a finger against her chin, clearly entertaining the notion.

Zevran didn't answer her. He was too far gone, unable to think of a witty response, scared that if he opened his mouth something _important_ might come tumbling out. What that important thing might be, he couldn't remember, but he wasn't going to risk it. If the Blight had taught him anything, it was that at least one other person would have gone through this for him. He could do it; he could play this game that he was so hopelessly rusty in. She laughed, and he looked at her, trying to determine what she had decided. No matter what she did decide, he knew he was in for more pain.

She leaned back and called out, "Lalo!" To his greatest disappointment, the great brute of a man heeded her voice quickly, opening the door and allowing that brilliant light to blind him again. By the time he had recovered, 'Lalo' was standing behind the slip of a girl who still sat on the floor. At least the door had been shut.

"Eduardo here is very dear to me, and he has expressed an interest in you." She reached back and patted the beast on the leg affectionately, as fondly as the Fereldans scratched their mabari. "And when I can, I allow him his interests. It makes for _great_ fun, as you might imagine." Her hand dropped as she looked back at Zevran. "Lalo, why don't you prepare a proper room for our guest? He has a few more days that he will be staying with us."

Lalo leaned down and held out his hand. The girl gracefully pulled herself to her feet, using it as an aid, and then she turned on her heel to glance back once more. "Do not break him, Lalo. I would like to have my own fun with him later. It has been a while since I got a new playmate."

She slipped out but left the door open, the light streaming in to strike the elf in the face. This time, he was prepared for it, closing his eyes against it just long enough to brace against the brightness. Then, when that monstrous hand reached down for his cage and picked it up, he slowly opened his dark eyes, letting them adjust slowly.

It was utterly _humiliating_, and he almost wished he'd let the light blind him again. There were quite a few people in the hallways, most of them more than just a little interested in what was going on. No one moved to stop him though, nor did anyone look particularly _surprised_. Just curious. It meant that, wherever they were, this sort of thing was commonplace, which did not bode well for the elf.

He was tossed into a room, and he flinched as he hit the floor, felt the jarring impact all the way through his body. He had enough time to draw a deep breath, and then the top of his cage was opened, and that hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and forcibly pulled him from it. The elf gritted his teeth, reaching up to try to... hell, he didn't know; do _something_.

It hurt so much, suddenly able to stretch out, his back unbending, his legs able to _move_, that he clawed at the hand holding his hair. But Eduardo didn't even seem to notice the assassin's fingernails digging into that beefy hand; he just carried the elf, bare feet kicking wildly almost two feet above the ground, over to a large flat table and slammed him back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. His mouth opened-- no sound emerged-- and bright spots of light flooded his already pained eyes. Then the hand slid from his hair and caught his arms, wrapping a length of rope around them.

He struggled. Maker help him, he _really_ did, but all it served was to earn him a slap across the face hard enough that he tasted blood. The bright lights sparked in front of his eyes, and by the time they subsided, his arms were bound in two places: just below the elbows and at the wrist. It was a default Crow restraint, designed to keep the victim from being able to use the wrist shackles as a garrote. The assassin blew out a deep breath, and then he was being stretched out, his legs in the grasp of his torturer.

He couldn't stop the scream that bubbled up, or the tears that pricked at the backs of his eyes. After being folded up for _so __**long**_, he wanted to jerk his knees up, let them bend again to keep from stretching those muscles. But the hand gripping his ankle was iron, ruthlessly tying it to one end of this iron pole that was easily the width of his own shoulders. Then the other one, and then he was being pulled up by his wrists.

The ropes were looped onto a hook, and he was suspended, standing on the balls of his feet to keep his weight off of his wrists. The position forced his forehead into his elbows and made his chest tight; he had to breath deeply to keep himself calm, to keep from screaming. The weight on his legs was almost unbearable, and he really didn't know _how_ he was able to keep himself up beyond the simple fact that if he lifted his feet, he thought that his wrists might snap from the pressure.

Then something warm and wet touched his thigh, and he jerked, trying to twist to see what exactly was happening. The giant of a man had a basin of water and multiple rags, most of which were already soaking. There was a slight steam lifting from the surface, caressing Zevran's calves lightly. He shivered, unable to stop the trembling as he was humiliated somehow further. They were going to _clean_ him up before they started?

The elf continued to focus on his breathing, keeping the tears from the pain of standing at bay to the best of his ability. Eduardo's touch was light, almost gentle as he washed the assassin. He didn't speak, didn't _do_ anything else. Just continued to carefully rub off all signs of the grime that had caked itself so thoroughly on his skin.

Then _she_ came in. Her gaze raked sharply over his prone form, and she moved to perch lightly on the giant's back. He didn't seem to notice it any more than he had noticed Zevran's desperate clawing attempts earlier. She reached out and rubbed the shoulders she leaned up against lightly, studying the progress he had made.

"Well, at least we'll have you cleaned up for your presentation," she said softly, the words rolling out of her mouth one at a time, as though she were _tasting_ them. Zevran ignored the ripple of fear that washed over him. "I mean, you're certainly not fit to be in the presence of a Bann as you are."

"A Bann?" he asked, unable to stop himself. A _Fereldan_ had arranged this? He'd expected it to be a Crow job, to be honest. The assassin's curiosity was piqued; he couldn't help it.

"_That_ caught your attention, did it?" She leaned forward, letting one of her hands touch her prisoner's midsection. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "I don't really care, to be honest. The privilege of being the one to kill you is more than worth it." Here, she stood, and she withdrew a slender blade from a hidden sheathe at her belt. "See, you killed someone important to me." The tip of the blade lightly touched his stomach.

"I've killed a great many people." It was a bad idea to be so flippant; he knew that. But he also knew that his time was _very_ limited. Sticky red fluid was beginning to trickle from where she dragged the blade upwards. It wasn't deep, just enough to draw blood; just enough to sting.

"True. But I don't care about that. I care about _one_ you killed. A fellow Crow." Her eyes darkened and the blade pushed in just a little deeper; not enough to cause permanent damage, but enough to _hurt_. Zevran's breath hitched. "You killed my mentor, see." He didn't answer; **couldn't **answer. Not with the _burning _and the _stinging _and the **blood **he could feel dripping down his body. She wasn't hitting a vital organ, but _damn_ that didn't make it hurt any less. The blade _twisted_, and then he was gasping as he felt it slide out of him.

His eyes eased open to watch as Lalo gently removed her from their prisoner, plucking the blade from her fingers and replacing it with a narrow riding crop. She caressed the leather for just a moment, and then she struck, leaving a bright red mark on the elf's side.

"Just you wait," she hissed between clenched teeth, landing another strike, this one on his stomach just beside the bloody wound. "You will _pay_ for this." Another red mark lit his abdomen. "Taliesin will be avenged, no matter that I have to wait until after this ridiculous meeting."

"Neema," he whispered, and her eyes widened. Clearly, she didn't expect him to remember her. She seemed to lose it then, moving behind him and unleashing a flurry of attacks that left Zevran biting back cries, tears beginning to stream down his face.

Her anger built as she was unable to extract any sounds from him, and she continued the volley until she couldn't lift the crop any longer. It slipped from her fingers, and she was panting, her eyes flashing as she moved to leave. She didn't look back at him, just left him to her companion's ministrations, which had only stopped whenever she hit close enough to his hands that he was in her way.

Now, the giant studied him impassively, silent as Zevran himself had been. Then he leaned forward, cupping the elf's chin with his boulder-like fist. He tilted the younger man's face up, and then _licked_ those tears away, his eyes closing as he did. Zevran was so worn, physically and mentally, he couldn't do anything, didn't _care_. He just wanted it to stop.

Then Lalo moved behind him, and started cleaning his back. Not even Zevran could remain silent as the giant gently washed the raw flesh, gently cleaned where strips of skin had been taken off. Eduardo got far more screams out of him than _she_ had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary**: Zevran survives an intense psychological torture only to discover that he's being kept alive by his two kidnappers (a huge man named Eduardo, who is called "Lalo," by a young girl named Neema) only until Alistair has met with the Bannorn.  After that, Neema will be allowed to do whatever she wishes to Zevran, and she confesses that all she wants from him is his death, since he killed Taliesin, her mentor.


	12. Zevran: Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's official now: Shades of Grey will have _fourteen _chapters. That means we're almost at the end now! Bear with me, this chapter is less intense than chapter eleven was, but there is still some disturbing imagery in it. If you do not wish to read it, skim down until you find the beginning of dialogue. That marks the end of the more disturbing imagery. Sadly, this chapter does not lend itself well to a neat little summary at the end.
> 
> As always, if you enjoy reading this story, please remember to **review **(constructive criticism welcome).

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_The Landsmeet had been awful. Eamon had insisted on supporting Alistar, never mind the fact that both Wardens were opening supporting Anora. Teagan had been doing his best to rally the crowd, never mind the fact that he wasn't exactly the most popular Bann. And Loghain... Loghain had been completely mad by that point. He'd been so drunk on his power that he'd even challenged _ _ **her** _ _ to one-on-one combat. Before anyone could have responded, Alistair had jumped forward, sword already out._

_No one challenged her and survived. Alistair wasn't about to allow this chance to escape him either. The wound from Ostagar was still too raw, too deep to heal. Above all, Loghain was a traitor, and he deserved to die as such. Just before the end of it all, Riordan had tried to stop the fight, but Antivan hands had held him back. Alistair couldn't stop, not yet. Not so long as Loghain drew breath. He knew that Zevran was holding Riordan back, _ _ **she** _ _ was holding Anora, and everyone was watching him. Swords crashed, and Alistair saw his moment._

_His shield came crashing down, locking Loghain's out of the way, and he continued the moment, his sword coming down. It didn't go all the way through the first time; it took two more hacks before the traitor's head was completely severed. He had watched it roll, shockingly proud of himself, and when his eyes lifted, his stomach sank._

_Of all the eyes on him, only Zevran's mirrored his pride at his task. Only Zevran seemed to understand the elation filling him. Riordan was sagging, whatever he'd wanted forgotten, and Anora was holding back tears as she announced her rule. He had dropped to one knee in front of her, swearing off his bloodline, swearing that he would never take the throne from her._

_It hurt less than he thought it should, but then again, he'd never been a Theirin. He'd been a bastard, a templar, a Warden. His eyes lifted to meet hers. A lover. Then his gaze drifted to meet those dark ones. A killer._

**[[ ... Chapter 12 ..... ]]**

The next day was as bad as the one before it, and by the time that his back had been cleaned again, Zevran was shaking, his jaw aching from being locked against any noises that threatened to escape. Eduardo was behind him one again, hands rubbing a poultice on his ragged back as gently as he could. He had at least been taken off of the hook, and the giant of a man had let him lay on his stomach across the narrow bed in the room. Truth be told, he didn't have anything to worry about from the former Crow; at twice his size and _fast_, Lalo was more man that Zevran wanted to try handling so far below his peak.

They were performing a classic Crow technique though, he had realized through the beating. As cruel and vicious as Neema was, Lalo was equally soft and tender with him. _La danza de las serpientes_. Admittedly, he had never seen it performed as well as these two managed. Even _knowing_ what was happening, Zevran found himself relieved the moment that Eduardo stepped into the room. The other man didn't ever _stop_ her, but he would prevent her from absolutely destroying the elf; he deflected the worst of it by giving her lesser instruments to inflict them with.

His fingers pressed down on a particularly deep gash, and Zevran couldn't stop the low moan of pain that escaped him before he bit his bottom lip. It stung; he'd been biting it on and off since he'd been brought up from the tiled room. It was one of the things that kept him from screaming when she got started. As soon as he settled, bracing for the next prod at his stripped back, he heard it: low talking coming down the hall. Immediately, he was pulled back up to his feet, Lalo glancing at the door.

"No... I really-- I don't think I can, Eduar-"

One of those fingers pressed against his lips, and the elf fell quiet, his dark eyes struggling to focus on the other man. There was something wrong, he realized, as the giant put him back on the hook to hang in the middle of the room. He peered between his elbows toward the door, drawing another bracing breath. Clearly, those voices were heading in here. Lalo's hand moved from over his mouth to stroke the side his face, and Zevran was taken aback by the _sheer_ tenderness in the touch. Then the larger man moved over toward the doorway, stepping into position just as the door banged open.

"You **swore** that the Theirin bastard would--"

"No, Bann Loren, I did _not_. I only said that it would deal a crippling blow to their command if we removed the elf." Neema was standing just behind an older man, her small hands curling into fists as she glared at his back. Lalo shut the door behind the two of them, not looking at the elf as they both moved to stand in front of him.

Taking his cue from the quiet giant, the former Crow didn't look up either, instead contenting himself to gaze at their shoes. Fereldan's really did have the ugliest shoes, he noticed, _really_ looking at them as he struggled to keep his gaze steady. His head was still swimming from the beating earlier.

"Well, it didn't work. Alistair is **still** meeting with the Queen, and to make matters worse, he's coming here to do it." Bann Loren was clearly upset that things weren't going as originally planned. Then again, the man was nothing if not opportunistic. He was well known for the ... fluidity of his alliances. Zevran had spent weeks corresponding with him, trying to convince him to commit more to the Warden cause.

"Why did you ever agree to that?"

Leather straps were barely holding the furs in place around the Bann's calves. Why was he even still wearing fur boots this late in spring? Surely it was getting warm enough for sandals. Like Neema's little delicate things. Narrow straps that did nothing but accentuate her slight ankles.

"It was Teagan's suggestion. And the Queen has a soft spot for him since he was Cailan's uncle."

"... It's not like it changes anything. You hired me for a job; I filled that job. You _said_\--"

The Bann shot her a look, and when she fell silent, understanding washed over Zevran, a bucket of ice water numbing his skin. She was _not_ a Crow. No Crow would have backed down so easily, allowed their contractor to quiet them with only a look. He had to resist the urge to open his mouth. It wouldn't do to _educate_ his kidnappers. Instead, he felt a little surge of ... something in him. Neema had to be on the run, same as he was. She had taken a huge risk, hedging her bets in the fact that most Fereldans didn't really understand the Crows. Now, he had a bargaining chip, small as it might be. He had something to work with. His fingers flexed a little, and he dropped his eyes again.

"I said that you would have him after I was finished, and you will." The Bann was nodding slowly as he looked the elf over. Not for the first time, Zevran was thankful for the arm bindings that Eduardo seemed to favor; when he was placed on the hook, it forced his head into his elbows, hiding most of his expression and protecting his face from any attacks. He couldn't help but wonder if Lalo did it on purpose, as much as the other man tended to touch him.

A hand caught a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back, making him grit his teeth at the position it forced him in. Pain shot through his neck, and his eyes closed as he drew a breath. A crop struck his still-raw back, and he jerked in another breath, not wanting to _scream_ from the pain. Knowing full well what she wanted, he looked over at Loren. A sick smile was twisting the older man's face, and when one of his hands slid down over his backside, Zevran cast his gaze over toward the giant by the door.

It was the clenching jaw that made the elf really _realize_ what was going on. It wasn't_ la danza _at all; the huge man by the door was _feeling_ something for him. He hesitated only a moment, but when a low noise of appreciation came out of the Bann and that hand started fondling a little _too_ freely, Zevran made his choice. He lowered his head enough to let Lalo really see him, and he parted his lips just a little, gasping slightly. The other man pushed off of the wall, standing straighter up. He had to be careful to play it just right; he didn't want to over do it. The elf drew his expression then, his brow furrowing, his bottom lip finding itself under his teeth, his eyes shooting down to look at Eduardo from the window created by the crook of his arm.

It must have sealed the deal, because then Lalo was suddenly with them, his hand wrapped around the Bann's wrist, peeling that hand off of the former Crow. Zevran didn't dare so much as _breathe_; he couldn't let them see how much of a relief it was to gain at least _some_ measure of control over the situation. He felt Neema's hand slide out of his hair, and he let his head slowly lean back forward into his own arms.

"What is this?" The Bann was struggling, and Zevran had to fight to resist the urge to turn to see. He had to rely on what he could hear, and it was driving him mad.

"You're not allowed to touch _anything_ until I am," Neema covered. Clearly, she was used to doing this, covering her partner's actions. Eduardo didn't speak, so she had to find something plausible instead, make this situation her own.

"That's absurd. I _paid_\--"

"Nothing yet." He could imagine the little mousey girl looking down her nose at Loren. With Lalo at her side, no one would oppose her. The man was a _beast_, standing at an easy seven feet, hands the size of hams, and a face that managed to stay expressionless most of the time. Only anger seemed to bleed through the neutral face, and _no one_ wanted to see that on a man who looked like he could take out a squadron of soldiers alone. He made _Sten_ look small.

The Bann backed down; of course he would. Loren was no fool, and no rat lived that long by challenging such an obvious threat. Instead, he would scurry around the problem, attacking it from another angle. Zevran felt hands in his hair; his breath caught. One of his braids was pulled tight, and he stiffened as a knife sliced it free. A moment passed, and then that knife sank into his upper arm, forcing a hiss and a low moan of pain out of him. The braid was dragged over the flowing wound, and pressed into Loren's hand.

"That's more than enough for your purposes, is it not, Bann Loren?" She would be arching her eyebrow, her head tilting just a little toward her right. He had heard the tone often enough to know the expression that went with it. When her Antivan accent was _this_ pronounced, she was angry.

The Bann must have nodded, because Zevran heard footsteps; then he could see the other man, the bloody strip of hair clutched in his hand, as he walked out of the room. The door slammed behind him. Then he felt the tension sparking behind him again. He exhaled _very_ slowly before he drew another breath. He wanted Neema to take out this anger on Lalo, not on him.

"_What_ was **that**?" To her credit, she didn't yell. No one trained as a Crow would though; it was unprofessional. He wondered when she had cleared out, how she had managed. Had Taliesin brought her with him when he came to fetch Zevran? It would have been the only way she could have made it to Ferelden, since she was still little more than an apprentice. Only someone who'd not yet been through the racks would have backed down so easily to a foolish old man.

Eduardo said nothing, and Zevran tried to imagine what the giant was thinking. The elf _knew_ what he had invited when he had looked at the other man that way, and while he wasn't exactly thrilled about it, it would be easier than allowing Neema to get ahold of him again. He didn't think his back could take another round under her crop. His spine stiffened just slightly as the girl stepped into his vision, glaring at him.

"He's planning on ransoming you, you know." _That_ would be why she wasn't happy. She still wanted to get her hands on him after the Bann was done, but if Loren was agreeing to send Zevran back, well. That was it for her chances. She truly was foolish if she was letting this get to her though; the Bann wouldn't return him. He would simply take him from Neema and use him for his own purposes.

"I'm not worth a whole lot," he replied, struggling to keep his voice even. She couldn't be allowed to know that anything had changed. He was remaining calm under this pressure. The _Crows_ had been unable to break him; a slip of a girl would **not** be allowed to manage something that they couldn't.

She smiled, and then her fingers reached out to touch the side of his face for just a moment. "You'll be more than enough to ensure that Alistair walks out on his own meeting. That will be enough to prove his incompetence." One of her nails dragged down his cheek, but Zevran was beyond feeling it. He was analyzing the situation as rapidly as he could.

It seemed like an awful lot of work to go through just to get Alistair sent back to Weisshaupt Fortress. It wasn't as though he wielded much power himself, no matter what his bloodline claimed he should. Although, he did have to admit, the moment Alistair's name came up in front of the general public, more volunteers jumped up. A chance to work so closely with the last of the royal line was not something that many passed up.

And of course, there was the fact that Alistair was a Fereldan. Normally, it was a good thing, but Bann Loren had to be scared that Alistair _knew_ about him. That the Warden _knew_ about Loren's less savory activities. After all, the Wardens had been quick to point fingers at Loghain, and that was during a Blight. If they took time out to handle it then, now that they had all the free time they needed, what else would they dig up? Loren was hiding something else, something he was scared they would find.

"It's not like it really matters though," Neema said, and Zevran forced his attention back to her. He was almost shaking from the implications of what was happening. The elf was only a pawn in this; Loren had been the one pressuring him to arrive ahead of Alistair to finish setting up the meeting. And if, for some reason, the meeting had been shifted to _here_, to **this building**... He had to get out. Had to make sure that this pig bled out in the mud, as it should; he'd made a _vow_ to keep Alistair safe, to ensure that this sort of thing wouldn't happen.

The girl, scowling when she realized that she wasn't going to get anything out of him, reached again for the crop. And she made a little shriek of frustration as Eduardo smoothly plucked it out of her hands and pointed toward the door. Lalo, then, was her keeper. He would be who she answered to whenever Taliesin was gone. It wasn't an unheard of situation, to have someone who filled both roles of manservant and teacher whenever the mentor was out of the picture. He would take the girl back to Antiva after all of this was over.

Then she was gone, muttering and growling under her breath, and Zevran blew out a breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding. It was only him and Lalo in the room then, and while he might have had something to fear normally, he was back in control of himself. He knew _this_ game, knew how to play, knew how to look. Those huge hands took him back down from the hook, and Zevran followed him meekly back to the narrow bed.

Eduardo pushed him-- gently-- toward the bed, where Zevran sat gratefully, taking the moment to brace himself, to prepare for what he _knew_ was coming. The other man hesitated for only a moment, gaze the elf a warning look, and then sliced off the upper bonds on his arms, leaving only his wrists tied together. His elbows eased apart, letting his hands fall into his lap instead of being held out awkwardly in front of him. It was a relief, but it was short lived as pain shot through his arm.

Adrenaline was beginning to fade, and that meant that he was noticing things again. Things like the simple fact that the _girl_ had _stabbed_ him in the upper arm, making it impossible for him to physically fend off any kind of attack. Not that he would have been able to do much anyway. Over a week of just enough food and water to be kept alive had made him weak, made him soft. He was far more pliable than he should have been.

Fingers probed at the wound, and Zevran's breath hitched as he tilted his face down, his eyes lifting in the same motion so that he was looking at the other man from under his lashes. It was a calculated move, and when those fingers lightly touched him again, he bit his lip. A low growl escaped Eduardo, and the elf nearly jumped at the sound. It was the first... anything he'd heard the other man make. He swallowed, ignoring the slight pain at the motion. Something had to give, or this was going to get out of hand, very quickly. He remained still long enough for Lalo to smear some more poultice over the newest wound, and then he sighed softly, looking up at the other man.

He wasn't going to beg for his life; he knew better than that. All it served to do was to remind the captor how much power they really had. Instead, he was going to have to try to entice the other man into initiating it, so that he could use the situation to his best advantage. So when the other man reached up to touch his face again, Zevran leaned into it just a little, _just_ enough. And when the kiss came, he was prepared for it. What he was _not_ prepared for was how chaste it was. Eduardo simply pressed his lips to the elf's, and then the knife was cutting the rope around his wrists. Zevran froze, his breath caught in his lungs as he looked at the other man. Lalo stepped back, drew to his full height and then jerked his chin toward the door. Another moment of hesitation, and the elf darted, not about to let the chance escape him.

He honestly expected to be stopped when he fumbled for the handle, but Eduardo hadn't moved, and Zevran wasn't one to question a gift horse. Instead, he simply managed a little smile toward the other man, and then he was out of the room, back in the hallway with all of the doors that there had been so many people in. He had no idea _where _he was, but it was somewhere that no one thought twice about a nude, filthy elf in a cage. That told him that it was somewhere he didn't need to be, naked and unarmed.

Just a moment passed while Zevran oriented himself, and then he was gone, rabbiting down one of the hallways. There would be a window or a stairwell or something, he reasoned, and from there he could do better about figuring out where he was. He heard footsteps, and, taking a chance, he ducked into the first door he put his hand on.

It was a small bedroom, only marginally more comfortable than one he'd been in previously. There were knick-knacks onthe shelves, which meant that someone stayed there. He calmed himself as best he could, listening for the footsteps to pass, and then he started rummaging around the room, trying to find a blade of some sort. Every Fereldan had one. Apparently, this room's owner took his with him though, because Zevran couldn't find it. He blew out a frustrated breath, and then he moved over to the room's tiny window, looking out curiously, cautiously.

He was just under the road's level, looking up over the edge of the stones that lined the sides of the road. Rainwater would have washed in, which, he supposed, explained the buckets along this edge of the wall. His head began to swim, but he shook himself. He had to stay focused. Most likely, Lalo had let him go for some... chase sequence that he enjoyed, and he had to _not_ be the prey that lost it. No matter the fact that the blood was washing out the medicine from his arm wound, or that he could feel it beginning to mingle with sweat and wash over his back. It _hurt_, but it meant that he wasn't dead. Not yet.

He forced himself to look back out the window at the sound of something clipping along the stone, and his heart stopped as he recognized the legs of the horse walking just in front of him. Alistair's horse was solid black, except for a small patch of white hair on his front right leg. All of the Wardens had joked that the patch looked like a griffon. Knowing that Alistair was _here_, with someone who didn't think twice about hiring a Crow-- a fake Crow-- to kidnap someone, was enough to shock Zevran into pushing back the pain a moment more.

He had to find a way upstairs, before Loren delivered the threat. Alistair _had_ to meet with Anora and the Bannorn. He had to be the Commander of Ferelden's Wardens.


	13. Alistair: Treachery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had so many points that had to happen, it took forever to write. I mean, I love it dearly and am quite proud of wrapping up so much in it, but it really did take forever to write and finish tweaking the order of the events. Several of these scenes are my favorite points in the story, but you do have to trudge through some political background information in order to get to the "good stuff." Hope no one minds too much!

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_She had ruined everything. Stripped him of his title, refused to stop him from killing Loghain, and now, she couldn't bring herself to say yes, to do the one thing that would allow her to live with him. Her own happily ever after, one she'd been reading about since she was a young girl, first brought to the tower. The nobility that _ _ **he** _ _ had instilled into her wouldn't allow it; her mage training refused to consider it as an option._

_And so, she had sent Morrigan away, ignoring the way her hands shook, the way her stomach rolled and her vision swam. Her chest was tight, and the moment the other woman was out of the room, she was sobbing, unable to stop herself. When she drew a shaking breath, trying to calm herself, she heard a noise. A glance over her shoulder told her that Morrigan had not shut her door. She hesitated only a moment, and then crossed the room, trying to keep her face down. She didn't want anyone to see her like this._

_However, she couldn't help the glance up just as she pushed the door closed. Her eyes landed on a certain elf-- he must have heard her crying-- and she bit her bottom lip. She couldn't possibly explain; not to him, not to anyone. Everything was falling apart._

**[[ ... Chapter 13 ..... ]]**

His stomach was rolling as they tied the horses. Shaking hands didn't lend themselves well to the task, and he was grateful when Teagan took the reins from him. Zevran had been at their mercy for _ten days_. The thought made him shudder, and he knew from Teagan's dejected expression that the other man had given up on the elf. Alistair _knew_ that it was foolish to hope that Zevran might still be alive, particularly since he also knew what that would mean he'd been through. No one could last ten days through even half of what the assassin had told him Crows did to their kidnap victims.

He had spent the past day and a half reading through the correspondance Zevran had left for him, and it had been hell, his fingers tracing the surprisingly well written letters, the delicate curves all blending together several times as he felt a burning wetness at the backs of his eyes. Jowan had been the one to take the papers then and took it upon himself to read them aloud until the templar had calmed down enough to resume his reading. He found himself _grateful_ for the apostate's assistance, knowing full well that no matter what happened, they did not have the time for him to mourn or even really help with the search. He had to trust the entire matter to Clovis and Luthanuel, something that grated on him terribly.

He turned to look at the home before them now. Bann Loren lived in a relatively luxurious place while in Denerim, particularly for a Bann. It had clear Orlesian influence in its coloring and style, but then again, what building didn't? Few Fereldans had been able to completely remove the Orlesian undertones yet, and honestly, most of them didn't wish to. No one would outright say it yet, but it was ... pretty. Of course, it being pretty was all well and good, but Bann Loren's home-away-from-home bordered on extravagant.

It had at least three buildings on the property: the main hall, straight ahead; the servants' quarters, to the left; and another building that Alistair couldn't immediately identify. He studied it for a heartbeat, then let his gaze roam back over toward the center building. Teagan led the way, having been there at least once before, and Alistair fell into step easily behind his uncle, trying to get a measure of the man that they were rapidly approaching.

Anora had not wanted to hold the meeting in the royal palace; it would be too reminiscent of the Landsmeet, she'd said softly, looking over the Warden's shoulder toward where her father had fallen. No one needed to remember that splash of blood, to see Alistair standing in it as he swore off his own bloodline once more. They needed somewhere fresh. Eamon had offered his own keep, as had the Cousland youth, but Anora had shaken her head to those locations as well. Eamon was well known for his support of Alistair during the Blight, and the Cousland's Denerim home had been nearly destroyed by Howe's men after his death at the hands of the Wardens.

No, they needed a new place, a neutral location for all parties. Bann Loren had the single largest private residence after the Teyrn and the Arl, and he had managed to stay out of the fray during the Blight. It meant that he hadn't been forced into choosing a side. It also meant that they had to be at the whims of a host who was best known for the fact that he went with whatever person had the most to offer. It was not the best situation to be in.

The ace in his sleeve would easily be _which_ Banns and Arls were arriving. Alfstanna, Sighard, Telmen, Cousland, Ceorlic, and Wulff had all agreed to the meeting, and when Alfstanna agreed, it almost assured Bryland's appearance. Rarely did he allow her arrival in Denerim to be left unnoted, and Alistair was counting on his support as well as the Bann by his side. In all reality, there were only three loose cannons going to be there that day, since none of the _new_ Banns or Arls-- Denerim, Amaranthine, and Gwaren all had new families since the Blight-- would be there. Their hands were still full settling into and repairing their new lands.

At least with Bann Alfstanna there, he would be able to finally convince her that her debt to the Wardens was paid. She still considered herself bound to them for finding her brother, the templar sent after Jowan, and since they had agreed with her to support Anora as queen, she'd had no way to pay the debt back. Zevran had deftly been hinting in his letters to her that supporting Alistair would be an easy way to ease it, and Alistair agreed. It wasn't that having debts owed wasn't a better thing than owing them yourself, but in Ferelden, debts were to be settled as quickly as possible. It was a matter of honor.

And if Alfstanna supported him, Arl Bryland was almost certain to as well. He was still appreciative of them locating her brother as well, and not even Alistair had missed the way that his hand had caught hers, squeezing when they told her about the conditions that the templar had been kept in. He had thrown his lot in with the Wardens the moment he could, trusting that they would continue to hold up their end of the bargain struck without words: do right by Ferelden. Uphold the honor and freedom that they all clung to. Maker help him, the Wardens were doing _just_ that. If someone wanted to try to change over the leader simply to get one that they could buy, Alistair was going to do his best to prevent it from happening.

He didn't really believe that Sighard would be there, but then again, he could see how Dragon's Peak would be quite interested in what was going on in Denerim, all things considering. Sighard's son was still recovering, some things incapable of being healed by magic or herbs. Some of the tortures that the boy had undergone needed time in order to fade, both mentally and physically. Alistair remembered that in one of Zevran's letters, a horse had been gifted to the youth, in congratulations of him being able to sit in the saddle again. At least Howe's treachery hadn't completely stripped him, although he would never follow in his father's footsteps. He wasn't capable of wielding a sword any longer; Sighard would be doing well to keep tabs on who was in control of what, considering his son's position. The boy would need a protector, someone to offer a hand whenever it was needed, and Zevran had assured him that the Wardens would be happy to help where they could, _so long as Alistair was Commander_.

Telmen would support him, he was certain; the Wardens had openly assisted him in defending his lands against Loghain's men, and he had sided with Teagan many times in the past. He not only owed them a debt, but most often, he _agreed _with their position. He would want to keep a Fereldan in control of the Wardens. With him would be Cousland, who had openly supported the Wardens since his return to court. Having been left for dead at Ostagar had clearly shifted the weight of his opinions, and once he'd discovered that the Wardens had extracted vengeance from Howe personally, he had thrown his lot with them. Blood for blood, he'd written to Zevran, expressing classic Fereldan sentiment on the matter.

That left Ceorlic, Wulff, and Loren himself as unaccounted for votes. Ceorlic had spoken out for Loghain at the Landsmeet, although whether was because he genuinely believed that Loghain was the better choice or he simply disliked the Wardens was a question Alistair could have used the answer to. No one really knew Ceorlic well enough to guess at his motives. And Wulff... Wulff had supported them, but only because the Blight had ravaged the West Hills already. Would he still support the current Wardens without the Blight looming over head?

Alistair raked his hand through his hair as they were greeted and shown to a small room in the main hall. He disliked this immensely; it felt like a set-up. It felt like... A very faint smile appeared on his face as he recalled the woman who'd approached them begging for their help to save her caravan. It felt like when they'd met Zevran, standing among the unharmed caravan, his daggers glinting in the light. It had been an awful set-up, but then again, his fellow Warden had confessed quietly to him under the darkness of night, Zevran had been looking for his death. He had not expected to survive the attack of two Grey Wardens.

If Alistair had managed to have his way, the elf wouldn't have either. At least, that's what he'd claimed. Truth be told, he couldn't kill anyone in cold blood like that, no matter how little he wanted to take them along. Even his beloved's soft pleading had left him cold at the idea of an _assassin_ trailing behind them, but Zevran had proven himself most useful in the end. And now...

The templar swallowed as he focused on the room he was in. Teagan was sitting on one of the benches against the far wall, looking vacantly out of the windows across from him. The room was quiet, and regrettably, they couldn't see the courtyard from their position. Instead, they were looking out over the kennels, watching as the dogs were trained. Finally, the door opened, and a great beast of a man stepped in. He was clad in simple clothing, and he stood at close to seven feet tall. It was disconcerting, Alistair realized, to have to tilt his head back to look up at him. Bann Loren followed him, very carefully latching the door behind himself.

A cold chill washed over the blond as he saw what was happening. Teagan moved to stand, and Alistair carefully positioned himself between his uncle and the newcomers. His sword was at his hip, the shield bearing the Grey Warden crest heavy on his back, still under his traveling cloak; if it was to be a fight--

"Please, gentlemen," Bann Loren spoke first, breaking the tension that had sparked the moment Alistair's hand touched the hilt of his sword. Teagan closed distance behind the templar, but he stayed far enough away that if something went wrong he could bolt. He was a Bann because of respect for his brother, not any martial abilities of his own, and everyone knew it. It was why he had such a small province in the first place, one that was within a day's ride or so of Redcliffe.

"Loren," Alistair replied, his hand tightening marginally on the metal grip of his blade. "We are supposed to speak--"

"We all know why you are here," the Bann shot back quickly, _spitting_ out the words one at a time. The man before him stepped to the side just a little, enough that Alistair could make eye contact with the speaker. He was still close enough to block any attacks that the Warden might make however. "You are here, in _my home_, in order to garner support for your command. It is a tenuous grasp you have of the Peak, isn't it? I mean, with your elf missing and all."

Alistair's jaw clenched. This was the way of it, was it? Zevran had been taken in an attempt to pull the Wardens' feet out from under them. No matter the continued support of the royal family, there were always those who disliked the Wardens. Disliked what they represented, what they were capable of.

"I assure you, this can all end quite... peaceably, **if** you go along with it." A silvered eyebrow raised, and Alistair quickly forced himself to focus. He could feel Teagan's hand on his arm, a not-so-subtle warning to still himself.

Since the loss of his fellow Warden to the Blight, his temper had rapidly shot out of control, and everyone who had spent any amount of time in the keep knew it. Only Zevran had been able to keep him in control, though why not even Alistair knew. It was as though the elf simply had a knack for saying _exactly_ the right thing, for knowing when to press and when to back off. He seemed to understand what Alistair was going through, and had empathized instead of offering him pity. Now, he was faced with having lost that stability, and he had to keep himself on a leash, or risk undoing everything that both of his lovers had managed to do for him.

He swallowed back his anger, taking a deep breath to calm himself before he squared his shoulders and drew himself to his full height. He was still far shorter than the man standing so close to him, but he did at least manage to tower over the Bann, and it clearly gave the other man pause for a heartbeat. Then his host's eyes flicked back to the other man, and he pressed forward, confident in his protector's abilities.

"I have something that _you_ want, and you have something that _I_ want. It seems like we'd be able to assist one another at least a little."

"I won't help you," Alistair shot back, the image of Elric Maraigne, one of King Cailan's honor guard all to center in his mind's eye. Elric had been tortured at Loren's orders simply because he had managed to survive Ostagar. Now, he knew that he would regret so quickly shooting down the Bann's proposal, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't agree to assist anyone who could torture someone to the point of death just because they had survived something horrific.

The older man sighed, reached up to touch his own forehead lightly. "I thought you might say that," he said softly, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small square of fabric. Teagan stiffened at Alistair's side, and as it was held out to the templar for inspection, he realized that it was wrapped around something. The dark fabric was soft against his fingertips, and his breath hitched as he recognized it: it was from one of Zevran's shirts, the dark blue one that he liked to wear when meeting with nobles. It had been Antivan in style, which was why he had favored it so.

He took it gingerly, and when he opened the little package it had been fashioned into, his heart skipped a beat. A single braid lay in the middle of it, most of the blond hair stained a dark copper color from blood. Zevran was still alive then? The blood wasn't completely dry yet, and the little leather wrap around the bottom of the braid was in the same pattern that the elf used. _Something simple_, he had once said, _but distinctive. Makes it decorative __**and **__functional_.

He felt as though he'd swallowed sand; his mouth was achingly dry. He looked up, first at the Bann, then at the guard with him. Something was in those eyes, something-- Pity? Understanding? Alistair's hand shook just slightly as he closed his fist around the lock of hair. Teagan's fingers dug into his forearm, trying to stop him, trying to keep him from losing everything in one stupid attack. He needn't have bothered.

It was a cold breeze, a chilling finality of the situation before him. He had never thought Zevran dead; he had _hoped_, for the elf's sake, that he was, but he had instinctively understood their position too well. He had known that Zevran was worth more alive than dead. The braid in his hand had a terrible weight to it, it seemed to burn through the little scrap of cloth. He was sure if he handed it to Teagan, his lover's blood would be smeared across his palm.

Eyes locked; silence stretched. Then Alistair hammered the nail in his lover's coffin with his next words, "You can't bribe or threaten me." _Duty_ came first, over all personal feelings; he had been too long in remembering this. "The Wardens will do what is right, whether I am their commander or not." It was as much a threat as a promise. No Warden would allow whatever it was that Loren was so scared Alistair would find out. "_You_ would do well in remembering what it is to be Fereldan."

Bann Loren's mouth was opening and closing, trying to find words, but Alistair wouldn't let him. He had lost _everything_; there was nothing left for them to take from him, except his Wardens. He was _not_ about to let them slip from him too. Someone who hired kidnappers didn't keep their promises, and he wasn't going to stake Zevran's life on the honor of Bann Loren. No matter what was said here, Zevran would have died anyway.

"Bann Loren," he said quickly, his eyes flashing. "Rest assured that the queen will hear of this." His right hand was still tight on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it if necessary. The huge man at Loren's side straightened up, but made no move in response to the Warden's words.

"I will hear of what, Alistair?" The door creaked slightly, and everyone looked up. Anora stood there, delicately grasping the handle of the door as she surveyed the scene before her. The entire group of Banns and Arls were with her, clearly having been on their way to collect Alistair and Teagan before the meeting was started.

Alistair hesitated only long enough to look pointedly at Bann Loren, and then he closed the distance between himself and the queen, dropping to one knee as soon as he was within arm's reach. "Your majesty," he said softly, holding up the damning scrap of cloth. "Bann Loren has issued a threat on the life of one of my men--"

"He is an elf! He is not even a Warden!" Loren's voice was cracking, but Alistair didn't turn to see the expression on the other man's face. He felt Anora's fingers lightly lifting the bloody cloth from his hand, and he stayed kneeling until she touched his shoulder.

"Settle yourself, Bann Loren," she commanded coldly, the braid in her hand now. "Explain what is going on here. What is this, precisely?"

Alistair stood slowly, looking over his shoulder at the Bann in question. Everyone was expecting something, as they filed into the room. A gasp was heard behind him; the point of delivering an object like that was quite obvious, and no one missed the implications behind it. The older man was frowning, his brows furrowed deeply as he looked at them all.

"I can explain," a voice called out, and Alistair felt something cold wash through him. His arms dropped limply to his side, and he turned toward the door, suddenly clear of everyone except a very naked, very bloodied elf. His blond hair hung limply around his face, smeared with blood but otherwise clean. He took a step, closed his eyes, then another. Alistair saw the tremble in his lover's legs and he rushed forward, catching the elf before he hit the ground. His arms wrapped around Zevran, pulling him close, but immediately let go when the elf made a low moan of pain.

His back was raw, a horrific mixture of blood and scabs and medicine all over it. How he had managed to get away, to _walk_ was incredible, and Alistair didn't even hesitate before he pulled off his traveling cloak, wrapping the other man in it in a single smooth motion. He hadn't managed it fast enough though, because he heard the strangled noise from several throats that signaled their own outrage at the treatment of _anyone_, elf or no.

There was only a moment where they all stood, staring at the bloodied and nearly broken Zevran-- there was a wound on his arm that was still sluggishly dripping blood onto the floor-- and then Anora was glaring back at the man responsible, announcing that he was under arrest for the capture and torture of a citizen.

His giant of a guard had vanished, and Alistair would have given chase except for Zevran's light grasp on his hand. Weak as the elf was, he could have easily shaken it off, but when he turned to look at his lover, he found himself paralyzed, incapable of leaving him to be protected by someone else. Not yet. He could hear Anora calling her guards, and then he didn't care anymore. He was pulling Zevran against him, quietly thanking the _Maker_ that the elf was alive, that he seemed to be as unbroken as could be expected.

Then Zevran was pushing him away, gasping slightly for breath as he swallowed back what had to be tears of pain. His dark eyes were red-rimmed, and when Alistair reached up to try to dry his face, the elf pushed him toward Anora, nodding just slightly. "Finish it," he whispered, and Alistair _knew_ what he meant. Finish what they came here to do, what everyone needed to see him do all over again. Finish securing their _freedom_, their _future_.

He let Zevran go then and moved back before Anora, who stopped speaking just long enough to look at him. Curiosity spread over her face for a heartbeat, and then her eyes widened and she nodded, knowing what he was about to do.

"Queen Anora," he said, his voice surprisingly clear, "I relinquish all claim to the throne that I or my heirs might have. You are our Queen, and such it should stay." No matter what else was happening, it was _vital_ to make everyone here understand this. "I am a Warden, not a Theirin." She touched his shoulder then, and took both of his hands in hers as she gently pulled him up.

"Grey Warden Alistair," she replied, her own voice matching his, "you have proven yourself courageous and capable. You are more than fit to lead the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and I would have no other; you have my support in your command."

As soon as she released him, he bowed to her, a fleeting memory of Duncan bowing to Cailan in his mind. "My queen, I must take Zevran to a healer immediately." And she released him from her presence. He scooped the elf into his arms and headed out. Normally, he would have carried someone injured so badly with their knees over one arm, their back against his other, but with Zevran's back so raw it would have done more harm than good. Instead, he let the elf face him, coaxed those bare thighs to wrap around his hips, his arms around Alistair's shoulders. His face was pressed into the Warden's neck, and Alistair could _feel_ the little hiccupping breaths that the elf was drawing. A heated wetness was on his neck, and Alistair's eyes closed as he walked out with his lover.

The cloak fell around the elf in thick folds, shielding him from the prying eyes around the courtyard. With Anora and the legion of nobility at his back, Alistair knew they had to be a sight for everyone, a spectacle of the highest degree. He hesitated for only a moment before he set the elf down, letting him stand on his own while Alistair unhitched the horse. Then the Warden was astride the horse and he reached down to help Zevran up behind him. Even this was unusual, as he would have preferred to have the other man in front of him, where he could not only see him but hold him and make certain that he didn't fall.

His wounds wouldn't allow for that though, and instead, Alistair just reminded him quietly to hold on before they were gone, leaving the estate behind. The Chantry wasn't far, and they would have someone there who could heal, be it a mage who was closely watched or a natural healer who worked with herbs and poultices. He wasn't certain, but Alistair figured that in a city as large as Denerim, they would keep a mage, despite the risk.

They reached the Chantry quickly, and within nothing short of a heartbeat, Zevran was back in Alistair's arms as they entered the building. A templar had seen either the desperation in Alistair's eyes or the crest on the shield on his back and quickly grabbed the horse's reins. Once inside, the sisters had swept Zevran away from him, leaving Alistair standing before the statue of Andraste. He felt something inside of him shifting, cracking, shattering.

Heat pricked at the backs of his eyes, and he reached up to touch where Zevran's own tears had touched his neck. He cupped his palm over the spot, his own eyes closing as he slid down to his knees in front of the statue. _Maker help him_, he mouthed, but he couldn't make the words come out. He was never particularly religious, something that had shocked almost everyone who had met him, including the elf now in the hands of the Maker himself. For a moment, he hesitated, and then he drew out his mother's amulet, felt the weight of it in his hand.

He couldn't do anything else, but he could offer Zevran his prayers.


	14. Alistair: Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank _everyone_ for reading and enjoying this story! I hope that the ending is suitable, as I rather like it myself. If you are looking for more Alistair/Zevran stories, please keep me in mind, as I am particularly fond of the pair and I will certainly be writing more about them in the future. I haven't yet decided if there will be a direct sequel, but there will at least be more Zev/Alistair fics from me later.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for staying with me throughout this journey, and enjoy the ending! I think you all deserved it for sticking with me and supporting me. Special thanks go out to Tasmen and TheLiterator (of Swooping_Is_Bad), as well as taisin (of the zevran LJ community), for their assistance in the writing of this story.
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed reading this story, please remember to **review **(constructive criticism welcome).

**[[ ... Pre-Chapter ..... ]]**

_The tent was quiet as she eased out of it, and for a moment, she turned, looking back at the sleeping body laying so easily in the roll they normally shared. She swallowed, then let the flap fall behind her as she made her escape. She would just go, she had decided. There was no need for either of them to go with her. She would go, and Alistair would live to lead the Wardens._

_Sten, Shale and her hound awaited her, the three she knew wouldn't try to stop her. Anyone else was a liability. Then that hand caught her wrist, and her eyes closed for a heartbeat before she turned to face him. Her Antivan._

_"It will destroy him."_

_Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and she averted her face so that he wouldn't see her tears. She had ruined everything, and now she didn't want to face up to it. Alistair should have been king; she should have been mature enough to allow that, to let him go. Anora could have been his queen, and they would have ruled Ferelden together. She had been able to see it, to grasp the image shining so clearly before her, but she had thrust it away, clinging to her lover with a grip so tight it had spelled their doom._

_"I know," she whispered, her voice cracking. His hand reached and caught her chin, pulling her face up. His expression was so serious, so unlike his normal easy-going smile. She had taken that away too. Then she hesitated, a new idea coming to her so quickly that it took her breath for a moment. "Zevran... Take care of him for me."_

_His dark eyes widened, and she saw him flick a glance back at the tent where _ _ **he** _ _ slept still. She knew he was weighing the request, trying to decide if there was something there that he could use to his advantage. He would try to stop her, she realized._

_"It's all I'm asking," she whispered, knowing that it was his weakness and pressing forward ruthlessly. He had taught her how to be so cruel. He had wanted her capable of defending herself, and now she was using it to keep them both safe. She saw the moment he was going to accept, and she plunged home, sealing it. "Promise me. Promise me you'll take care of him. ... Just... just until he can do it himself."_

_A hesitation, but she had won. She saw it._

_"I promise," he finally whispered back._

**[[ ... Chapter 14 ..... ]]**

Four days.

Even with the healer's assistance, it was four days before Alistair could see Zevran again, before the elf was well enough to leave the Chantry. Jowan and Luthanuel had brought both Zevran's and Alistair's packs, leaving them with the commander before they headed back to the Peak. Clovis rounded up another batch of recruits-- twelve more, four women in this batch-- and headed back himself, but only after he was quite sure that everything had been settled.

And settling things down had not been easy.

Anora had Loren arrested, then put to death for his crimes that had all come spilling out into the light the moment he was out of his estate. He had been selling elves to the Tevinter; apparently, he had been the one to advise Loghain on how to go about it, even going so far as to introduce Loghain to his own Tevinter contacts, who had been quite happy to get access to the Alienage during the Blight. There were whispers of other things found in the estate, beings twisted by magic, apostates found screaming in cages too small for them to stand in. Always spoke of in whispers, in hushed voices that wouldn't carry down the street.

The letter had come two days ago, and Alistair had read it over and over; he could quote it, if pressed. It had detailed _exactly_ what had been done to Zevran, it had offered an **apology**, as though that would ever be enough; it had offered a single piece of welcome news: that Zevran was going to be reported as a Warden, which would make him an exceptionally undesirable mark. Something else had been enclosed in it, a small glass griffon that Alistair had immediately taken a liking to, despite where it had clearly come from.

Now, he was sitting on the same damnable bench he _had_ been sitting on for the majority of the past four days. He was turning that little piece of glass over and over in his hands, watching as it caught light, reflected it back into his eyes, and then shimmered and lost it because he kept moving it. Each tiny facet soaked up the light greedily, drinking their fill and overflowing with the excess, casting small purple and blue spots of color onto the cold stone floor of the Chantry. None of the sisters or brothers stopped to speak to him by this point; instead, they only flashed their smiles and left him to his contemplation, to the prayers he had stopped speaking aloud three days ago.

"You're a fool."

The voice made him stop, and he looked up, all at once horrified and overjoyed. Zevran looked decent, dressed in his own clothing, his hair neatly tied back from his face, the red-rimming around his eyes faded and gone. All that was left were a few bruises that Alistair could see, trailing from around his throat and down to disappear under the white fabric of his shirt. _Knowing _that they were there, Alistair had to forcibly resist the urge to push the other man back against the wall, to tear open that shirt so that he could _see_, so that he could make _sure_ that Zevran was okay, that he was in one piece.

But that wouldn't be appropriate, and considering the cold look in the elf's face, Alistair was pretty sure that it wouldn't go over well. He forced his fingers to continue tracing over the little griffon, no matter how much they ached to be tracing the narrow lines of his lover's face instead.

"You've said that before," he replied, standing slowly. A moment passed between them, and then Zevran was the one who stepped forward, stiffly-- his back must have still been aching. He took the little figurine from Alistair's hand, looking at it with a very small smile. It was a start.

"And you _always_ prove me right." The figurine glinted in the sunlight, and then it disappeared into a pocket, though not as smoothly as it might have before the trip to Denerim. "Where have you been staying?"

Alistair drew a breath and then confessed quietly, "Down the hall." He didn't miss the sharp look that Zevran sent him, the _disbelief_ in that elven face. He didn't meet those dark eyes, didn't want to see the doubt that Zevran held so close to himself. "I wanted to be here when they let you go." It was the truth, but he knew from the way that Zevran snorted just slightly that the elf didn't believe him. That he considered it a weak excuse.

Alistair didn't care.

"Are you ready to go home?" He asked the question tentatively, uncertain of the reaction he would get. He knew what he _wanted _the answer to be, but he also knew this mood that Zevran was clearly in. The elf had been close to death for _two weeks_. One didn't simply slip back into normal life so quickly after that.

Zevran didn't answer out loud, but he motioned for Alistair to head down the hall, and he looked away when the Warden attempted to meet his eyes, to see what he was thinking. Unable to see anyway around it, Alistair led the way, holding open the door when they reached the small room he'd been staying in. His bag was open, most of his things spilling out of it onto the floor, while Zevran's sat close to it, only having been opened long enough to pull out the clothing that the elf wore. Alistair had given it to one of the sisters, in order for Zevran to have something of his own to put on when he was released.

Now, Zevran knelt down, swept up Alistair's things in a smooth motion and then shouldered his own pouch. Alistair didn't miss the wince as the weight of it settled onto his back, the fleeting moment of remembered pain. The former prince picked up his own pack and then handed Zevran a cloak for him to wear on the road. It was one of Alistair's, since Zevran's hadn't been recovered. There was no mistaking the momentary panic on the elf's face, and Alistair swallowed back his retort, his disbelief that Zevran would read so much into such a small thing. It was a cloak, not a contract.

"There's a cold wind today. Summer is a few weeks away yet," he offered quietly, coaxing the elf into taking the cloak, into ignoring the griffon emblazoned across the back of it. He _knew_ he was pushing too hard, too fast, but he couldn't help it. He wanted everyone who saw Zevran to _know_ what they were getting into the moment that they touched him, that they even considered harming him. He would be seeing shadowy figures in the crowds for some years to come, he was certain.

A moment, and then Zevran took the cloak, letting it fall over him in voluminous folds. It was too big, and Alistair busied himself with his swordbelt, needing something to focus on. It was all too fresh, the blinding panic, the _rage_ at knowing that someone had dared to take Zevran right out of Warden company--

"Where did everyone go?"

"Teagan had to return to Rainesfere. I'm to send word of your recovery before we leave Denerim." A sharp tug, and then he threaded the leather band through the buckle. "Clovis took a batch of recruits back with Jowan and Luth for another Joining. If they make it, he'll be taking Julien and leaving us before we return. When we get back, it will be only Fereldans there." He couldn't hide the note of pride at the thought, at knowing that they might have an order of their own people once again. He knew that all the Wardens were outside of their own country, that they ceased to be Fereldan the moment they joined, and yet... one couldn't hide their blood. Yes, he was a Warden, but he was a Fereldan in his heart.

He lifted his head as he tugged on his cloak, and at Zevran's expression, he realized his mistake. His _Antivan_ was looking away, a sad smile visible despite the angle. Alistair couldn't help it, couldn't stop his hand from reaching out, from cupping that bruised face and forcing him to look up. "Zevran," he said softly, searching momentarily for the right words. He needed this to be _right_. "You are one of us. You always will be. The moment you took that oath to her--"

"You know she released me from that oath long before we ever reached Redcliffe." Dark eyes cut over toward him, and Alistair smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. His hand fell away, and he was pleased when Zevran continued to look at him, not letting his face turn away again.

"Doesn't surprise me," he finally said, returning the gaze easily enough. "She was Fereldan, through and through. An oath given at swordpoint is no oath at all."

"I will never understand you Fereldans. You are the only people in the world who think such things."

"It's true though. There's nothing strange at all about it. An oath of loyalty given at swordpoint is only good as long as the sword is there." He hesitated for a moment, trying to judge Zevran's mood, trying to figure out exactly _how_ to word it for the other man. "Just like being a Warden. It's only offered to those deserving, not just to those about to die. If we did only pick those about to die, then we would have ranks full of deserters the moment something better came along."

Zevran reached up and lightly rubbed the material of Alistair's cloak between his fingers. He was pointedly looking down at it, instead of at the blond he was standing with. "I am no Warden, Alistair," he said quietly. There was no laughter in his voice, no smile on his lips. Slowly, it dawned on the Warden _exactly_ what Zevran was saying, and then Alistair's hands were on him, the former prince trying to _shake _sense into his lover.

Alistair's mouth went dry. "You are a Warden in _every _way except that you have not been Joined. Is that what you _want_? To go through a _Joining_?" He couldn't prevent the fear in his voice as he looked at the elf, trying to figure out the answer before it came. He didn't want to lose Zevran, and that was a _very_ real possibility if he went through it.

"No." Dark eyes finally lifted up to look at him. But the mask was up, and the Warden couldn't read what he _needed_ to out of them. It made him want to shake the other man all over again, injured as he had so recently been or not. "I don't want to trade the Crows for the Wardens. I am ... enjoying being my own man," the elf finally added, looking away again. "And odd as it might be, I like where I am. I like being able to choose. Besides," and _there_ it was, that smile, "it's not like you'll ever learn to be on your own. You'll always need me to watch out for you."

Alistair pulled him close, crushing him with a bear hug. His relief was evident in his face, and he didn't want Zevran to _see_ how much that meant to him. He wasn't sure he would be able to withstand the teasing that would inevitably stem from it. "We are happy to have you," he said softly, his eyes closing. His mouth was scarcely an inch from the top of the elf's head; he was breathing in deeply Zevran's scent, ignoring the underlying Chantry herbs.

"And here I am," Zevran murmured, his arms raising to lightly return the hug, "happy to be had."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "_I tried to downplay it, with a bet about us  
> you said that you'd take it  
> as long as I could, I could not erase it._
> 
> _You could taste heaven, perfectly  
> feel out the summer breeze  
> didn't know when we'd be back  
> and I, I don't-- didn't-- think  
> we'd end up like, like this._"
> 
> _\--"Sorta Fairytale," by Tori Amos._
> 
> **Disclaimer**: I own neither Dragon Age: Origins, nor "Sorta Fairytale," by Tori Amos. I make no money from these writings.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not Made of Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/351905) by [Traxits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traxits/pseuds/Traxits)




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